


The Splinter Inside Me - Part I

by crewdlydrawn



Series: The Splinter Inside Me [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathroom Sex, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Clubbing, Creepy Behavior, Foster Care, Jack is not a good person, M/M, Masturbation, THIS WORK WILL HAVE A SEQUEL, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage sex is Teen on Teen, Unhealthy Relationships, Use of rohypnol, but no sexual assault, teenage John, teenage Joker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9918959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: Bruce Wayne was totally NOT lonely in his empty mansion... but taking in a kid who reminded him too much of himself may turn into more than he bargained for.***Sequel forthcoming***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewaynecondition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaynecondition/gifts).



_Wayne Foundation Transition Services._

While it had been Bruce’s own thought to put the funds in place, not wanting other orphaned children with less privileged statuses in life to be left out in the cold in more ways than one, the actual classes had been all Alfred's idea.  Most of the boys' homes in Gotham weren't able to keep their wards until they legally aged out, not having the resources or, frankly, the patience, to deal with the boys after they reached their mid teens.  Between the increased cost of food and clothing, the hormones and then the school dropout rate, it just wasn't practical in their setting when they had so many younger boys to care for, as well.

Aware of the situation, Bruce had set up a portion of the funding the boys' homes already received to go specifically to those boys who remained in the umbrella care of the orphanage after turning sixteen.  There were halfway houses set up, weekly allotments and transition services available.  Even so, it was a daunting leap for most of the boys to go from the authority of the staff at the homes to the expectations placed on them as near-adults practically on their own in the city.  It was that leap that had most interested Alfred, and from there he had fashioned a new stepping stone.  Bruce regularly marveled at how his old friend had a way of adding to and improving whatever ideas he came up with, no matter their type.

Thus, the classes were started.  Before they were set to leave the orphanages, those boys who were about to or had just recently aged out but hadn't yet been processed in the systems were brought to Wayne Manor to have everything properly explained to them.  They were given copies of the legal paperwork, even if they couldn't understand all of it just yet.  One of the social workers that managed wards of the city outlined what would happen to them in the coming weeks and months, as well as exactly when their funding would stop.  In addition, it was explained that, while the money allotted in their direction did not come with a mess of strings, there were still expectations placed on the boys.

They were to remain in school until graduation.  With the help of liaisons, they were to look for work and, if at all possible, keep it.  They were to contribute to the households in which they found themselves.  The point of the program, which had the boys meeting twice a month all together at Wayne Manor, was to give them as much of a leg up on the world that was already dead-set against them from the start. 

Bruce wasn't present for the classes.  He showed his face at the charity events that kept the Foundation funded beyond the influx from the profits of Wayne Enterprises and his own steady stipend, and he visited most of the boys' homes at least once a year now that he was back in the city, but the classes were Alfred's thing.  When he was out in the public, it was easier to keep his tightly-wound mask in place, the façade of Bruce Wayne, billionaire, Gotham's Son.  There were good reasons to have the boys at the house, but when he was home it was different, he felt more exposed, felt closer to his childhood, and it was harder to see individual people with the same measure of distance—especially when those persons were orphans, full of emotions he could all too readily identify with.

That's not to say he ignored the classes entirely.  In fact, he tended to listen in, to watch from a distance, to see how smoothly they ran, what problems the boys were encountering, and how they responded to Alfred.  If he were honest with himself, he really just wanted to see how they were all doing, feeling more of a kinship with them than he'd ever care to admit, as if he knew them already, without having personally met them.

___________________________________

Somewhere out there, there was a concept of a 'sweet-sixteen,' a whole mess of people who celebrated turning another year older after fifteen as if it were some kind of rite of social passage, some magical turning point where their lives were suddenly fulfilling.  At least, that's what watching movies about teenagers had taught him.  In reality, John Blake had little knowledge of what most people did about birthdays, or about anything in general, least of all people who lived with money.  He'd lived his whole life in the Narrows of Gotham, and even though his high school lay on its outskirts, no one from outside those neighborhoods went there.  While there were dozens of different levels of 'poor,' it was safe to say birthdays didn't rank very high on the priorities list of most people he knew.

For John and other boys like him, boys living under the shared roofs of city orphanages, sixteen was dreaded.  Even though most of the city and its systems didn't consider them adults until they hit eighteen, the boys' homes, the buildings and rooms in which a lot of them grew up, didn't let them stay those last two years.  There was no magical change that happened when they hit their sixteenth birthday, but the older they got, the more they cost to keep around, and the city had to pick an age to kick them out.  John thought it had more to do with the trouble they got into at older ages, but no one ever said as much.  He'd seen his fair share, his own records sealed because of his age, another precedent based on how many years he'd been around.

John was turning sixteen in less than a week, and he didn't know what he was going to do about it, still.  Boys were generally given up to a month to make the transition, especially if they weren't taking the program offerings funded by the Wayne Foundation.  Free money... honestly, he had no idea why anyone would want to throw away free money.  Maybe it was pride, and he could see that, not wanting to live on someone else's handouts, but living in an orphanage was already living on someone else's dime, so if they wanted to continue it until he was eighteen, why not let them? 

To that end, he found himself on the bus headed outside city limits, passing over the river and through the calmer parts of Gotham that he hadn't even seen before, not in person, anyway.  Five other boys were with him from St. Swithin's, and a half dozen from a couple of other boys' homes in the Narrows.  All of them were either just-turned sixteen or ready to, and apparently that meant they were in for a speech straight from the source of the money they were going to get.  The ride wasn't even that long, but as they pulled up the long, dirt driveway to the mansion, Wayne Manor, John felt as if they might as well have travelled to another world, entirely.

If the ride through the outer grounds had been overwhelming, John had not been prepared for the manor itself.  Outside, it looked stern, foreboding, like the kind of house from a horror movie where a bunch of people would stay in before getting killed off one by one by the ghosts that lived inside.  Inside, it was cold, but somehow almost welcoming.  The white stone that made up most of the first couple of rooms they saw was smooth, shiny, and it made their footsteps echo as they followed an older man into what was probably a living room or something but was larger than all of St. Swithin's' common areas combined.  Introducing himself as Alfred Pennyworth—just 'Alfred' to them, if they liked—the old man shook hands with Father Reilly, their escort, and the other adults before stepping into the center of the space.  None of the other boys were sitting on the furniture, either, standing like John, probably thinking the same as he was, that it looked like it'd ruin from just one touch of their ratty pants.

"Please, be comfortable," Alfred said as he looked over them all, gesturing with a sweep of his hand towards the chairs and couches that lined the room.  "The trays on the tables are for you, as well," he continued, indicating the finger-foods and small desserts that dotted silver trays on the low-set tables, "help yourselves."  His smile seemed sincere, and John wasn't sure if that made him more or less inclined to trust the guy.  Either way, he was going to eat some of that food.

John was the first to sit down, piling a plate with sandwiches. The talk itself was boring, full of stuff John had already figured out on his own.  The expectations were obvious, the legal papers they had to sign were simple enough.  Half the other kids looked lost, their eyes glazed over at all of the information, helpers promising to work through it with them and social services.  John just signed his paper and shoved sandwiches into his mouth.  By the time the talking was over, John was the last to get up, tucking a few sandwich wedges into a napkin and stuffing the bundle into his jacket pocket for later.  The rich guy was probably going to throw the uneaten ones out, anyway.  What a fucking waste. 

Alfred led them out, John at the rear, and he got a good look at the room, the halls, on his way out.  Where there wasn't furniture, ornately shaped and in places gilded, the marble and stone itself was carved or molded in intricate designs.  There were shelves on all the walls in the rooms, filled with photo frames, knick-knacks, and small decorations, each of which looked more expensive than everything John had ever owned put together.  Eyeing the group's progress in front of him, he lagged, hesitating only a second to be sure before ducking into a side room, looking over the shelves.  They were so full, with so many little things littering their space.  Ultimately, it was simple math... the chance of one being noticed missing before they were out the door and back into the city had to be low enough, and even then there’d be no telling which of the boys had done it. 

With one last glance out the open doorway, he snatched up a small jewelry box, slipping it into his other pocket so as not to crush his sandwiches, and then caught up to the group.  The front of their line was already loading onto the bus they'd come on, and John stepped up behind, casually approaching the old man who was greeting each boy as they passed.

"Not you, sir."  John barely realized he was being held back by a worn hand on his arm.

Stopping, he kept his face steady, exuding calm.  "Is there a problem?" he asked.

Fr. Reilly stepped back toward them, but Alfred waved him on.  "Master Wayne would like a word with this young man, if that's alright," he called out over the heads of the last few boys.  "We'll send him back with a car, later."  The guy's smile seemed enough to convince him—that and maybe Fr. Reilly didn’t want to argue with the source of half the orphanage's income—and just like that, John was left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

As the bus turned down the long driveway toward the city, John was led back into the manor, into the same room he'd just left, the room he'd taken the box from.  _Shit_ , he swore silently.

"Master Wayne will be along in just a moment," spoke the butler calmly.  "Please wait here, if you please."

_As if I could do anything else right now,_ John muttered under his breath.  The old man smiled as if he'd heard, nodding to John before walking out.  He didn't want to sit down, so instead he stepped to the window that showed a gently sloping hill.  A wide set of stone steps led down into a garden area, with a greenhouse beyond.  Wayne easily had a half dozen city blocks all to himself, and a lot more open.  It looked more like a fairy tale than reality, really.  Lost in thought, he didn't even hear the footfalls in the hall, the approach.

"John, is it?" came the smooth voice only a few feet behind him. 

Startling nearly off the floor, John turned, keeping his features far more composed than he felt on the inside.  "That's right," he answered, voice steady, standing so that his pocket wasn't pulled at.  Maybe it wasn't about the box... _Fat chance of that_ , he thought bitterly.  Of course the guy who could spare millions, who was offering so much supposedly free help would crack down on one tiny box.  "The old guy said you wanted to talk."  _Stay relaxed, John, don't let this guy rattle you._

"Please, have a seat."  Wayne gestured to a small sofa as he crossed the floor to sit in a chair opposite it.  He didn't smile, not like the butler, though he had a few wrinkle lines that showed he did sometimes, and John had seen enough photos the city press loved to take to know those were completely faked.

Sitting, knees apart and hands clasped in his lap, he watched Wayne watch him, keeping his face a mask, not even smiling the fake smile he kept at the ready for when he needed it.  Finally, the guy spoke.

"What do you want to get out of this program, John?" he asked.  "And please, be honest, not what you think I'd want to hear.  You're in either way."

Blinking in surprise, John had to scramble for a reply as he stayed steady on the couch.  He'd expected a different line of questioning.  "Well, I'd like to keep on living with a roof over my head, for one thing," he said dryly.

"Naturally," Wayne returned sincerely enough.  "Anything else?"

Shrugging his shoulders, John picked at the dirt gathered under his finger nails, in sharp contrast to the spotless clean of the room around him.  "That's pretty much it, simple things," he replied.  "Get out of the fucking Narrows for real someday, but that's about as likely as this house burning down."

There was a look to Wayne's eyes that he probably thought was sympathetic, but it came across to John as pity, and it brought a scowl to his face.  "That is possible, John," he spoke more quietly.

"Yeah, not so much from my side; no offense to your offers and all, but everyone I know that's gotten shit from you still hasn't made it past the tenements on the edge of town.  So excuse me if my hopes aren't too high right this moment."  It was harsh, maybe even rude, and came out a lot more bitter than he'd intended, but it was no less true.  John was a lot of things, but not a liar when he could help it.  At least, when it wasn't about something he'd stolen.

Wayne seemed to consider his words for a few moments, tilting his head as he looked at him.  When he spoke again, his tone had turned that kind of fabricated thoughtful, the kind most adults used to try to tell him something sad and make him think it was good or at least not so bad.  "You know," he began, and John braced himself, "this house is really big, and it gets really empty feeling, quiet, like it could use a few more people in it, you know?"

No, he didn't know.  Nowhere John had ever lived had had the problem of _too much_ space.  "I guess," he replied in lieu of sounding like a pathetic little orphan Narrows boy.  Orphan and Narrows boy he may have been, but he was anything but pathetic. 

Standing, looking around the room, making John’s eyes go straight to the shelf with the missing box before he dragged his gaze back down to the floor, Wayne rubbed a hand over his chin.  “Makes me wonder how it’d be to have a bit more company around.”  _Was he being serious?_

“Uh… yeah?”  What exactly was he supposed to say to that, anyway?

“So what do you think?”

“About… what?  You having more company?”

“About you coming to live _here_ , instead of a halfway house.”

John blinked, not sure he could possibly believe what he’d just heard.  “Y—… what?”  It couldn’t be real, not really, not Bruce-fucking-Wayne, the city’s golden boy, one of the world’s only billionaire orphan kids all grown up, not _him_ asking if John wanted to live there with him.  Fuck, the guy wasn’t even old enough to be his father.  “What,” he asked again, ready to shove aside the mistake as soon as it was clarified, “you want to adopt me or something?”  He let his tone be light, following it with a snort and a look away from Wayne.

There was a moment’s hesitation, a few breaths of silence, in which John held his.  Either way, he wanted the moment over with, wanted to get back to where he knew what was what.  Either send him back to St. Swithin’s or let him wake up.

Leaning against a low-set windowsill that looked like it could double as a seat, Wayne dipped his hands into his pants pockets, shoulders relaxed.  “I’d like you to come live here, with me; I’d be in charge of you, legally, but we could talk about how you felt about anything else after a while.”

John felt as if the floor had dropped out of the room.  It wasn’t real.  “…Are you fucking serious?” he asked sharply.

Wayne laughed, and it almost seemed sincere.  “Yes, I’m ‘fucking serious’.”

“I… you…” he stopped quickly, suspicion rising again.   “Why?” he had to ask, his brow furrowed in the middle.  “What’s in it for you?”  He’d heard enough stories about kids getting picked up by people who only wanted their bodies, or work, or to sell them off and never tell the orphanage what happened.  Some were probably killed.  It was the only way some kids left the system at all, however.

The guy just nodded.  “I’d be suspicious, too, I get it.”  _No, you don’t, you arrogant fuck,_ part of John’s mind reacted instantly.  “Like I said, though, it’s a big house, quiet when it’s empty; I could use the company.”  The shrug to his shoulders wasn’t convincing enough. 

“What kind of company?” John asked, his jaw set, readying himself for an escape from the grounds if necessary.  He wasn‘t going to get caught by some sick fuck, even if he didn’t give off that kind of vibe.  They probably never did, right away.

Wayne didn’t seem to understand immediately, but then quickly held up his hands in defense, shaking his head.  “No, no, nothing like that,” he assured, his voice lower set, having lost any light and casual feeling to it.  “It’s not like that, _I’m_ not like that,” he added with more emphasis. 

“So, what, you want to gain more points with the poor people by taking them in, now, one-by-one?”

Wayne tilted his head to the side, a twitch of a smile tugging at his lips.  “Maybe I just saw myself in you,” he said, “thought I’d like to get to know you better; though points with the press are never a _bad_ thing, no.”  The last he added with a wink which was clearly a tease.

Finally, he looked like maybe he was telling the truth, despite the ending joke.  “Saw yourself?”

Wayne nodded, moving to sit down in the chair across from him.  “You lost them young, didn’t you?  Violently?”  His voice was softer, only reaching John’s ears and not echoing off the walls of the room.  “They were murdered?”

John’s jaw ground tight.  “My dad was,” he spoke after a few moments.  “My mom and I had a car accident; the other driver was drunk.”  He waited for it, then, the pity, the look in his eyes, but it didn’t come.  Instead, Wayne only nodded again, the squint to his hazel eyes reminding John of his own, looking as if he was feeling what John was feeling, but for real, not the fake sympathy and pity that he usually got.  That was when he saw it, the spark of anger in his eyes, like a fire burned beneath and behind them, barely contained. 

It felt like looking in a mirror.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke quietly.  “No one should have to go through that, especially to get dumped into the system, after, with no one left to care for them properly.”

“I did fine for myself,” John blocked instinctively. “We can’t all be billionaire playboys, can we?”  The words were bitter, but he turned a sarcastic edge to his tone to soften their blow, unsure why he bothered.

Regarding him for a moment, Wayne smiled, lips closed, looking completely different than the smile he put to the cameras for the newspapers and TV, when John had spent time in the common room to actually watch it.  “No, I guess we can’t,” he finally replied, “but sometimes our fates can be changed, right?”

John snorted.  “Isn’t that the opposite of having a fate to begin with?”

There was that smile, again.  “Probably.  Good thing I don’t really believe in predetermined destinies, then, huh.”  It had his brows knitting again after, but John found a small smile tugging at his own cheeks, in return, before he stopped it.  He hadn’t felt a real smile in longer than he could remember, and yet this guy he’d only just met was pulling one out of him.  The feeling was so foreign.

“So, what do you say?  Should we get your things from St. Swithin’s?”

“Can… can I think about it?  I mean, it’s a big thing…”

“Absolutely.  Father Reilly has my number, so you can call when you decide.”

John was driven back to the orphanage, showing up in the long, black town car and getting a lot of attention from the other boys.  They all wanted to know what happened, but not for John’s sake; they just wanted information on Wayne.  So he gave them a story, enough to make them leave him alone, and went back to his shared bedroom where it was quiet for the moment, taking out one of the small sandwiches. 

He checked the wrong pocket at first, and realized he still had the jewelry box from the mansion.  All that talking with Wayne, the car ride with Alfred, and neither of them had mentioned it.  When he’d been held back, he’d assumed that had been why, but now he wondered if he’d actually managed to get away with it, after all.  Even if he had, now what?  He still had it, had stolen from a man who had just offered to take him in.  If he sold it, eventually he’d find out it was missing, and Wayne would no doubt blame him, turning him out.  On the other hand, if he gave it back, admitted it now, there was no way Wayne would still want him to live there.  He was screwed, either way.

_Unless_ , he wondered to himself, _unless I go back and put it back without anyone seeing._   There was a chance, but only if he was left alone in that room again, and the chances of _that_ … With a sigh, he leaned against the wall behind the head of the cot, resting his head in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

“Did he say anything on the way back?” Bruce called across the garage as Alfred stepped out of the Bentley.  He’d been tempted to go along, to see where the boy lived, but they’d agreed that if there was another chance he’d confess, it would be to Alfred, alone, without the added pressure of Bruce being there. 

A shake of the older man’s head answered him first as he closed the door and joined Bruce in the main part of the house.  “No, sir, not a peep,” he finally replied, “about the box or anything else, I’m afraid.  But I do think that that boy is nervous over what he’s done, especially now that you’ve backed him into a corner.”

Pausing in the front foyer, Bruce turned, eyebrows raised.  “Oh, have I?”

Alfred smiled, patting his shoulder.  “I’m sure you know exactly what you’ve done, Master Bruce.  Perhaps some tea?”

Bruce chuckled as he quietly followed Alfred into the kitchen.

It was several days more before they heard from John, but they did.  The call came before the end of the week, though not directed from St. Swithin’s.

“Hi, uh, Alfred?” came the voice the second Bruce picked up the receiver.  Most calls he left to Alfred or the machine, but they were few and far between to begin with, and a quick check to the caller ID told him it was the Gotham City Police Department, and that sparked his interest swiftly enough.  Though he couldn’t be sure until he answered, he had a solid idea of who it would be. 

“It’s Bruce, actually,” he answered, recognizing the boy’s voice.  “John, isn’t it?”  A quiet curse sounded from the other end of line, and Bruce found himself biting back a chuckle to match.  In truth, Alfred probably would have been harder on the boy, not easier, as it seems he suspected.

“Yeah, it’s John,” the voice steadied quickly, gaining a harsher edge followed by a creak of the phone wire, and Bruce imagined John turning away from the scrutiny of the officers who were undoubtedly watching him as he called.  “Look, I only have a minute, and this is, uh, it’s really embarrassing, but can… can you come pick me up?”

There it was.  “Are you in some kind of trouble, John?” he asked calmly, knowingly.

There was silence at first.  When his voice returned, the bitterness in his tone could have eaten through the floor, were it to drip out of the phone’s speaker.  “Look, I get it if you won’t, but St. Swithin’s doesn’t do bail-outs, and they’d kick me out of the program if they knew I was here.  I don’t _need_ the program if I’m staying with you, so you’re kind of my only shot right now.  So get me or leave me, either one, just tell me in like thirty seconds so I can tell the badges that’re rushing my call, okay?” 

Just listening to him, Bruce could sense how many shields the boy had built up around himself, the walls of protection to guard him from getting hurt, from disappointment.  Bruce knew those well, as he had constructed his own over his lifetime.  Even then, they were familiar confines.  “Which precinct, John?” he asked, his tone kept softer, exuding patience.

“You—Really?  Fuck, okay.  Twenty-sixth, on Concord and fifth.  And, uhm… thanks.”  The call cut out there, but Bruce had a feeling not by John’s choice.  The boy had made his call, had a ride and bail money; they had no obligation to let him continue. 

The drive was a short one, even from the manor, and the precinct not too far outside the Narrows.  There were, of course, none inside the poorest section of the city, leaving most of its inhabitants further exposed to the kinds of crime that poverty and desperation bred.  Quietly, a higher portion of Wayne Foundation funds went to orphanages housing children from the Narrows; they needed even more help than the others.

Parking the Porsche out front, Bruce ignored the stares and turned heads along the sidewalk as he stepped out onto it.  If a show needed to be made, it would be later.  The current moment was about getting John out safely.  Inside, he was directed to a holding room, where a uniformed officer was waiting with John, whose wrists were cuffed together. 

At the sound of the door, John stood, gesturing to Bruce.  “Fuckin’ told you,” he bit out at the officer.

“Yeah, watch your mouth, kid,” the man replied, tugging at the cuffs’ chain before releasing him, tucking the cuffs away on his belt.  John hissed as it yanked the metal against his skin, but said nothing, smart enough not to make things worse on himself by fighting.  Bruce, on the other hand, was in a much better position.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary, now is it?” he spoke in a smooth tone at the officer.  “He’s not going to cause any more trouble.  Are you, John?”  He raised an eyebrow at John to emphasize the point, meeting his eyes, imploring him silently to go along until they were out.  Money or no money, Gotham’s golden boy or not, a local cop with a chip on his shoulder could be a force to be reckoned with, and it would be best to keep the whole ordeal as simple as possible.

To his credit, John picked up quickly, as expected.  “No, sir,” he agreed, his tone much less biting, but his jaw tight with the effort.  He was out of his element, and reacting like a cornered animal.  Of course, Bruce had a feeling he was familiar enough with being inside the police station, but certainly not with asking someone like Bruce to bail him out and take him home with him. 

“There, now,” Bruce formed a smile of cooperation and aimed it at the officer.  “Are we set to sign the necessary papers, then?”  They were, and met with enough simple charm, they were finished and outside in only twenty minutes. 

Outside, John’s eyes visibly widened at the sight of the car.  “Is that yours?  Nevermind, of course it’s yours.  You’re Bruce-fucking-Wayne.”

Bruce flashed the boy a small smile aimed away from the people who had gathered to see what Bruce Wayne could be doing at a small precinct in the middle of the city.  “I am,” he agreed, “and yes, it’s mine.”  Making sure John was settled into the passenger side, Bruce started the engine, giving a safe show of peeling out from the parking space.  Appearances were important, after all.  He could take in one of Gotham’s strays, but he didn’t want to be taken too seriously, even so, not with his careful secret.  Of course, now he would have one more person close to him—someone whom he’d need to keep in the dark, or, as it were, _out_ of the dark—but once he’d seen the boy, he couldn’t have let him go back to the city alone.

“So, when do you want to talk about why you were in there?” Bruce asked as they made their way through the streets.  Though he kept his eyes mostly on the road, he could still see John’s frame tense up at the question.

“They told you, already, didn’t they?”

“Of course,” Bruce nodded, “but I’d like us to talk about it anyway, to hear your thoughts on it, your side.”

There was a snort from beside him.  “My side?  Who fucking cares about my side.  My side wouldn’t have had me hauled into the station to begin with, so why’s it even matter now?”

“Well, they say you assaulted a cop, resisted arrest, and I’d like to know how that really happened.”  Before another dismissal came up, he quickly added, “Not what they said, what _happened_.”

It took a block or two, a red-turned stoplight, and a deep breath, but at length John spoke.  “Look, just because someone’s a cop doesn’t mean they’re good, that they know what they’re doing, or that they’re _right_ , okay?”  When Bruce didn’t argue, he continued, “He was trying to get one of the boys to run _errands_ for him, and when he wouldn’t, he threatened to haul him in for resisting, and a whole bunch of other shit that José hadn’t done, not then and not ever, but who’s going to believe the little orphan street kid when they haul him in all the time?”  There was a near growl accompanying the bite to his voice, now, and Bruce waited a moment before speaking, letting him seethe and calm, first.

“So you decked him,” he spoke without question, and devoid of judgment.  It made sense, really, if it went down as he said.  There were certainly enough crooked and bent cops in Gotham’s force to lend credence to the story.

“I _pushed_ him,” John corrected.  “Two hands on his chest, and he didn’t even fall.  Sure smacked me and José right back, though.”  A hand lifted to tenderly press along his cheek, and Bruce realized what he had mistaken for sleepless bagging under his eyes was actually the start of a pair of bruises.  “Whatever, as long as José gets left alone.”  His hands returned to his lap, and Bruce watched as he picked at his fingernails, probably an anxious habit. 

“I can’t say I would have done any differently, if it had been me, really,” he replied.  _Errands_ was a term he was familiar enough with, especially with the increased drug traffic in the past few months.  “Though you make out like a loner; why risk yourself?”

The look the boy shot him wasn’t likely to leave Bruce’s mind for quite some time.  “No one deserves to be left alone to get hurt,” he spoke firmly.  “No one.”

They stopped at the orphanage to gather John’s belongings.  Letting him go up alone, Bruce went to talk to the father in his office, nearly getting mobbed by the boys on his way.  Only a promise to come back out and talk gave him a path through to Reilly.  He gave the man a polite smile as they shook hands, not having met him in person, though having spoken on the phone.  There was a different kind of recognition in the man’s eyes, but Bruce wasn’t quite sure what it was he was seeing.  At least, he hoped he wasn’t.

“Mr. Wayne,” Reilly greeted him, “it’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you.  Your foundation keeps us able to help so many more boys.”  Gratitude took over his expression, and they got the legal paperwork taken care of.  Bruce had called the case worker before picking John up at the station, to make sure they had everything in order.  Money greased more wheels than just the police station’s paper trails.

The bag the boy came down with was small, no real chance to gather a lot of possessions in his situation, Bruce was sure.  He’d taken the time to comb his hair, the slight curl to it tucked behind his ears instead of hanging about his face.  A combination of that and a lack of handcuffs and imposing police officers had him looking a little older, not quite so small.

Saying his farewells to Fr. Reilly, Bruce waited and answered a smattering of excited questions from the boys while John said his own goodbyes.  Despite putting up a hard shell front, making out to be a lone rock in the sea, he certainly seemed to be connected to the other boys, particularly the younger ones, to whom Bruce could hear him tell to be strong, to hold their own, that he would come see them if he could.  The boy cared more than he let on, especially with how he’d ended up at the station to begin with.

“Alright,” the boy’s voice was heavier, but his expression stoic, dry, as he turned at last to face Bruce, “I’m ready.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was different, this time, driving through the city towards Wayne Manor.  Of course, he was riding in a Porsche instead of a bus, alone with a rich guy instead of with a bunch of loud teens squashed together, but those things weren’t at the forefront of his thoughts.  St. Swithin’s had, for better or worse, been home for nearly half his life.  He knew its rooms and walls better than anywhere else, the noises the floors made, the smells.  He wanted out, no one stayed in an orphanage their whole life, but now that he was leaving it, he felt somewhat attached.  Visit, he could visit if Wayne let him. 

And now here he was, his life packed into one bag, a court date being set because of an asshole cop, and on his way to live in a rich guy’s mansion.  Slipping his bag over his shoulder once they’d pulled up, he stared up at the house before climbing its steps.  Unreal.  The box was tucked back into his pocket, not having been on him, at least, when he’d gotten picked up, and now he just needed a moment alone to put it back.

Not likely, when it seemed the old man was going to shadow him the whole time.  Alfred had met them out front while Wayne drove the car around to a garage entrance, and guided John the rest of the way inside. 

“Let’s get you settled, first, Master Blake,” he said as John walked back into the wide first hall, echoing even more without so many people in it.  He was led to a wide staircase, all white stone, with a banister wider, sturdier, and a lot fancier than the one at St. Swithin’s.  Even the door they arrived at was larger and heavier than any he was used to, set into the wall with a carved opening.

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

Alfred only chuckled, waiting until John had set his bag down before showing him the nearest ‘washroom’ as he called it.  It seemed they had plenty of them, and John would essentially have his own to use.  One of a thousand strange things he would have to get used to, if that was even possible. 

They took a tour of the house, and John gained a new appreciation for the word ‘mansion’.  Apparently there was one corner Alfred had settled himself, one that was open—in which John had been placed—and the rest of the upper floors, one whole side, was not for John to explore, but only for ‘Master Bruce’, Alfred explained to him.  There was nothing dangerous or anything, but Mr. Wayne enjoyed some measures of privacy, of course.  Privacy.  That was rather a foreign concept to John, something he’d just never had before. 

The house had a huge library, more books than any room John had ever seen, including the libraries at his schools.  He’d never really taken time to read when he didn’t have to for assignments, but he wondered what sitting on one of the soft-looking chairs curled up with a book might feel like.  He didn’t have to wonder for long, as Alfred suggested he pick out something he liked from the shelves and do just that.  Most of the titles weren’t familiar to him, but he pulled out a thicker one when he spotted the name ‘Dickens’ on the side.  The book was _A Tale of Two Cities_ , one he’d heard about but never seen a copy of.  The opening line had him scoffing quietly, calling it ‘a fucking contradiction’ before—despite more contradictions marching down the page—continuing anyway  At least for a few minutes before he was told there was supper ready.  Barely holding back from dog-earring the page, the book seeming too nice for that, he discovered the ribbon that was probably meant for bookmarking, and put it on the page he’d left for later. 

Of course, he couldn’t let himself get _too_ used to all of it, in case Wayne kicked his ass to the curb; he would, eventually.  Maybe if he was younger, more like a cute-faced kid, then he’d be more likely to keep him, even adopt him.  Older boys didn’t get adopted.  And if he were ever going to get adopted, it would have already happened.  But he’d come from St. Swithin’s, and the cute ones never ended up in the boys’ homes.

The bitter thoughts that first day had him in a brooding mood by the time he was directed to a small room by the kitchen, the smells of food in the air.  They had good food at the boys’ home, healthy enough though much was donated, so they worked with what they had.  This, though, smelled incredible, like the same food had been made, only better, correctly.  It held true when it came time to sit and eat, as well, surprisingly.  They didn’t sit in one of the more fancy dining rooms, the ones with the big, heavy wood tables and shelves of expensive plates and silverware on display.  The smaller room had a table that probably sat only four to six people, and opened up to the kitchen, a pantry, and the hallways.

“No need for all that finery when it’s just us, right?” Wayne had explained when John asked about it.  “Some things are better saved for show.”  John could certainly relate to _that_ thought.

Wayne himself definitely wasn’t how John had expected, how he had imagined.  Hiding behind a mask, just like John.  Maybe the guy just wanted someone around who understood _him_. 

That first night, John couldn’t sleep a wink, though at least that was familiar even if the feel of the house, its sounds and smells, weren’t.  He stayed in his room for a while, just looking over it all, the walls, the sculpted ceiling, each piece of furniture that was probably worth more than all of the furniture in the house he’d grown up in.  _You’ll make yourself crazy, John, if you keep comparing what just can’t be compared_ , he told himself for at least the third time since entering the manor.  Two hours in, he decided he had to get out, to move around, at least a little, at least to stretch his legs, maybe make himself tired enough to get a little rest.  Maybe.

That aim in mind, he left the room, keeping his footsteps quiet on the stone floor.  The house was eerily quiet around him, even for the middle of the night.  Put enough people in one building like he’d had before, and even late night hours held _some_ kind of activity, noise, anything but the almost tangible silence and darkness he was experiencing.  His steps kept light, he explored the rooms near his, mostly empty, lots of them covered in sheets over the furniture.  When he got to the staircase, he paused, recognizing that crossing it led to Wayne’s half of the upper floors, but everyone was asleep, so what harm could come from exploring?  That, and he’d tucked the box in his pocket before leaving his room.  Looking down the steps, he told himself first thing’s first.  Before he could get caught, he’d quickly put the box away, and _then_ see Wayne’s half.

The marble of the stairs felt even colder under his bare feet, and he made quick work of them.  _Left_ , he reminded himself as soon as he re-oriented to the front open hall.  It was only two more rooms down, and he checked for any movement or sounds before slipping down and into the smaller room—if any of them could really be called ‘small’.

It felt a hell of a lot smaller instantly as he realized someone was sitting inside, on the chair that faced the door.  As John stopped short just inside the door, a shadowed arm reached to turn the switch of a lamp, making John squint in the sudden light.  

“You can go ahead and put it back,” Wayne spoke casually, his face smooth, watching John without anger lighting his eyes.

_How…_   Hesitating for a long moment, trying to decide if Wayne really knew, how he was going to react, he finally decided there really wasn’t a way around it at the moment, no matter what.  Letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he pulled the small box from his pants pocket, stepping over to set it in the space he’d taken it from the other day.  He turned it to match how it had sat before.  “So you noticed, huh,” he said flatly.  “You got a catalog, after all, or something?  A list of every little thing?”

There was a twinkle to Wayne’s eyes as John turned to face him.  “For some things, yes.  But this time, I saw you.”

“Cameras?”

Wayne shook his head slowly, his eyes staying fixed on John’s.  “Nope.”

“Bullshit.  No one was around,” John spat out.  “I checked.”  That got a smile on the edges of Wayne’s mouth, and the sight was maddening in the moment.  “What, you sneak around your own house spying on people like some kind of rich ninja?”

Wayne’s reaction was small, just a quiet chuckle, and it raised John’s suspicions further.  Who needed to sneak around their own house, anyway?  If he wanted to watch them, why not make himself known while they were all there?  And, most importantly, “Why didn’t you just stop me, then?  Or say something before letting me leave?”  It made no sense at all, and Wayne was too calm.

Crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, Wayne leaned back in the chair.  “I’d wanted to see what you’d do, actually.  To see if you would say something, yourself.”

“This some kind of ‘teaching moment’ or something?” he flung back, having heard the term plenty of times from the staff at the home.  ‘Teaching moment’ was code for lessons about the way the world worked, and how it would always fuck them over, even if the latter was never explicitly stated, of course. 

“More of a testing moment,” Wayne clarified, raising himself up to stand.  “I keep an eye on everyone who comes into my house, John, especially those who wander off alone.  You, however, are no ordinary thief, are you?”

John felt himself tense up, defenses rising at the label.  “I’m not a fucking thief,” he spat, despite the obvious reason for the word being used.

Wayne didn’t even fight it, didn’t argue or raise an eyebrow, just nodded.  “And that’s why my mother’s jewelry box is back in its place,” he said evenly.  “Get some sleep, John,” he patted his shoulder lightly, “it’s quite late.”  With that, he walked out of the room, not even glancing behind him. 

\----------

When Alfred called him for breakfast that next morning, it was just him and John.  It turned out Wayne didn’t really eat on a regular schedule.  In fact, he didn’t really see that much of the guy in the first several days he stayed at the manor.  They talked a few more times after the first time with the box, about what John liked to do if he got spare time, about the places Wayne had traveled to while he’d been away for five years—five years that had had the city assuming he’d died after suddenly disappearing.  Mostly, though, Wayne spent time in one of his rooms or was gone into the city now that he was in charge of Wayne Enterprises.  John had thought, at first, that this would give him ample time to explore, but Alfred was simply always _around_. 

That is, until he wasn’t.  It was the perfect opportunity; Bruce was in the city, putting in his face time with the company, and Alfred was in the greenhouse after making sure John didn't need anything.  He didn't, at least not from Alfred.  What he needed –well, what he wanted, anyway—was for the man to stay outside long enough for John to explore the parts of the house he hadn't gotten to see yet.  The parts he'd been told not to go into because they were Bruce's.

Fuck that shit.

A peek out the window showed the old man was still out there, in his gardening clothes and with enough supplies that John was sure he'd have time.  Even so, he hurried through the hall, stepping silently despite the fact that no one was inside to hear his footfalls.  He was sneaking, and sneaking required stealth.  That, and it made it more exciting, made his heart race.  In the stillness of the empty manor, he could hear the speedy beat thumping in his ears as he peered into the rooms he passed.

There was another library, smaller, probably with a private collection or something.  The end of the hall was a large bedroom with a bathroom bigger than most bedrooms John had seen, and even a sitting area on the other side with a bunch of small, square windows, and even those windows that opened like doors leading out.  The space was undoubtedly Wayne's, and it held enough room for two or three families in the Narrows.

Fucking rich people.

He left that room quickly enough, with a pair of attached rooms the next in the line.  Double doors opened from the hallway, an open space with a couple of small tables in the center and art on the walls, then another set of doors across the way.  Those were locked, but that only made it more interesting.  John wasn't in a real habit of picking locks, but he kept a set of pins laced into a neck chain—luckily not having been on his neck when he’d been hauled in—just in case he ever got stuck in a jam.  The mechanism was simple, old, and easy to pick within moments after retrieving the pins and returning, letting John into a larger room with more furniture, plenty of light, bookshelves, and a big piano.

That got his attention quickly.  He'd seen one in one of Gotham's shopping malls, once, with his parents, but it was the kind that no one was supposed to touch.  When he'd tried, security had shown up real fast and told them to leave.  Even then, he had known that other kids, richer kids who weren't just in the mall to get warm but were there to buy things, those kids would have just gotten a laugh and sent back to their parents.  Maybe they'd have even gotten a song or two in before being told to stop.  This one, though, was just sitting there, with no one around, and practically begging to be played.  Who was he to deny it?

He couldn’t see Alfred from this side of the house, but he trusted that no one would hear as he sat down on the sleek, shiny bench that matched the instrument.  It was sturdy, not creaking under his weight, and he shifted on it, adjusting his arms before setting the barest touches of his fingertips onto the smooth keys.  Someone with experience or lessons at all would have known what to play, how to play, but he just pressed on a few keys, his fingers apart, hitting tones that at least sounded like they might go together if handled just right.  Travelling up the keys, he hit a series that didn’t sound very melodic, and he cringed just a little, but it wasn’t their sound that took his attention.  The moment the last of the three sets he hit was pressed, there was a cracking sound and a creak coming from the wall beside the piano, directly behind John’s left shoulder. 

“The fuck…” he breathed out as he looked up.  A section of the bookshelves built into the wall had shifted, leaving a space between it and the next set of shelves. 

What a jackpot, he thought to himself as he stood up from the piano's bench.  The rich sure kept their secrets, and in really weird ways.  He had to wonder what skeletons he'd find in Bruce Wayne's closets, and, given the manner in which it had opened, if those skeletons would be literal.  Thoughts of Alfred and getting caught left his head, overtaken by curiosity.  On closer inspection, none of the books close to the opening were real, or they were at least glued to their places.  With a palm flat on the spines, he gave a slow, steady push, the wall section creaking quietly as it swung further into a dark space behind.

An elevator?

The mystery only intensified his imagination, and there was no hesitation as he stepped inside, pulling the gate down first and then the lever, sending himself down the thick metal chain with the elevator's cage rattling the whole way.  Only partway down, he noticed the air cooling, and it continued to do so until John felt quite chilled upon reaching the bottom with a resounding clang.  Throwing the gate back up, he glanced around, only darkness and the sound of rushing water meeting his senses.  A cave, maybe?  So Wayne's skeletons were hidden in a cave?  How big could they be?

Or maybe there were just that _many_ …

Questions still swirling, heart racing, he stepped carefully out of the cage, feeling for a wall, finding his hand met with damp rock.  Walking carefully along, keeping contact with the stone, his fingertips bumped into something smooth, metal.  Squinting into the space, he thought he could make out a similar shape to the elevator's lever, and he pushed it up, immediately closing his eyes tightly against the bright that followed.  Row by row, hanging overhead lights came on with the echoing clicks of their breakers.  When his eyes finally adjusted, he looked around, finding his jaw dropping open in shock at what he found, at what rose out of not only the rock platform but the water itself.  His theories and guesses regarding news bulletins that had begun nearly a year earlier rose back, ready, into the forefront of his mind, and he grinned wide.

"I fucking _knew_ it," he breathed out into the open cavern.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm sure Mister Wayne is giving the matter his sincere consideration, Mister McNamara, Miss Dayton; we'll be in touch by the end of the week."  Even halfway to sincere sleep, Bruce followed the progress of the meeting, listening to Lucius Fox reassure their future business partners at its close, the sound of the board room doors shutting tightly behind them. 

"One of these days, that balance of care and apathy might come back to bite us in the business, Mister Wayne," came the quiet, half-teased admonition as Bruce sat up to rub his hands over his face.

"Might," he acknowledged.  "For now, they'll be back.  Dayton is interested."

Fox chuckled as he gathered the spread of papers he'd laid out during the meeting.  "Miss Dayton was more interested in the deepening slouch of your suit in that chair than the business at hand, I think," he argued.

Straightening said suit, Bruce pulled over a graph sheet before Fox could grab it into his pile.  "Maybe, in the moment," he spoke absently, "but she's no arm candy for McNamara.  She's got her own investments, and, undoubtedly, her own interests involved in this deal."  He'd done his research, even if he'd droned during the actual meeting.  It had been a late night, after all.

> _A year had yet to fully pass since he'd left the temple, disappointing Ra's al Ghul and Ducard alike, and leaving behind others who might have become brothers, but the shadows of Gotham were already more a home to him than any collection of walls could possibly pretend.  Nights had taken him prowling the depths of the Narrows, spying on the corrupt financial districts, watching rhythms and patterns so that he knew how his city breathed, what made it come alive.  This night, however, stood out from the rest, and was for a more specific errand._
> 
> _Leaving Alfred in charge of John, he'd made a pretense of having a business meeting in order to keep to a minimum any suspicion about leaving so far into the evening.  If he'd waited until the boy was asleep, it would have been too late.  While John hadn't mentioned the cop's name, the police report had stated which officer had witnessed the event, which was the same man whom John had allegedly assaulted.  Hamilton, Garrett.  He'd taken a couple of days after picking John up to get to know the man's schedule, his beat, and his patterns.  As it turned out, he had a habit of pushing around young street kids, and for more than just helping run drugs._
> 
> _At times, it was all too easy to spot the depraved, the ones who didn't seem to care what rules or morals were in place, but served their own wants and needs at the expense and harm of those not in a place to defend themselves or even seek restitution.  A dirty cop was bad enough, alone, but one abusing his badge to serve misdirected urges, Bruce couldn't stand for, and neither could the Bat.  There was little Bruce Wayne could do at the street level, no proper proof that would stick with uniforms protecting their own.  The Bat, however, operated outside of those rules, and therefore could do so much more._
> 
> _John had given him stories, but that night he saw for himself.  Hamilton had taken aside a young boy, couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen, not even John's age, and brought him into a darkened alley.  The Bat followed along the lower rooftops, wanting his own kind of certainty before dropping down, and it came quickly enough as Hamilton told the boy to drop his pants and face the dingy wall.  Before he could expose himself, the Bat was behind them, taking fistfuls of Hamilton's coat and dragging him back to slam against the opposite wall._
> 
> _"Go," he growled out at the boy who was quick enough to obey, his eyes wide._
> 
> _"Who the fuck do you think you are, you freak?"  Hamilton's anger was a mistake he would soon regret._
> 
> _"Justice," the Bat replied, "for that boy and all the others."  He didn't give the man a chance to reply, instead landing punches to his ribs, his sides, and a palm flat to his chest to stun him to the ground as he fought to regulate his breathing, his nervous system on overdrive.  "While you're down there," the Bat ground out, "think on your sins."_
> 
> _“I swear to God—” Hamilton started, mostly out of breath, only to be interrupted by the Bat’s growl._
> 
> _“Swear to ME,” he ordered, delivering a swift kick to the man's stomach, sending him spitting blood out onto the filthy concrete.  "If you lay one finger on one more boy in this city, I'll know, and you'll be done, do you understand me?  Nod your head, you bag of scum," he ordered when no response came.  Hamilton nodded, and while he could have been left to stew in his own blood and piss, it wasn’t quite enough._
> 
> _Pulling cord out from his belt, the Bat bound the nearly whimpering man’s hands and feet, dragging him up over his shoulders, knowing exactly where he should go.  Come the next shift change, when officers sought out their coffee at the local donut shop, they would find Hamilton hanging upside down in the mouth of its alley, with a note attached to his shirt that read, ‘I abuse my power.’_

With a grimace, Bruce stretched his arms behind him, his shoulders complaining at the motion.  Hamilton had been his main errand, but not the only encounter he'd had. 

"Rough night, Mister Wayne?" Fox asked with a knowing tone to his voice.  He knew well enough by then what Bruce did with R&D's supplies, even if they never spoke about it outright.  Deniability was invaluable. 

"A little," Bruce replied with a small, tight-lipped smile.  Fox only shook his head, and the two went their separate ways.  For Bruce, that meant putting in some face-time with some of the assistants in the executive lunchroom.  Bruce Wayne was a billionaire, a playboy by birthright, and he needed to be seen as such to keep the Bat covered and unsuspected.  If it were just Bruce, he wouldn't bother.  Not to say the women employed by Wayne Enterprises weren't beautiful, and smart to boot—they certainly were not only found behind assistants’ desks, after all—but they weren't his taste.  Just enough give and take allowed him to seem a flirt without being slapped with harassment suits, and he was careful not to give attention where it clearly wasn’t wanted—a difference between him and many other men in the city.

Even so, aside from the more public parties he sometimes held at the manor, no women went home with Bruce Wayne.  No men, either, but he hadn’t much explored that inkling just yet.  Publicly taking out another man would draw more attention and interest to him, rather than letting him fade into the background, and trying to hide it would only make matters worse if it blew up in the press.  All in all, the thought of actually dating for his own edification was simply out of the question.  There were more pressing matters at his attention.  

_Then what are you doing inviting that boy to live with you?_ echoed quietly in his mind as he watched Gotham’s busy traffic from thirty stories up.  There were many reasons ready to answer the question, but they were all the same he’d given John, the same he’d given his lawyers when he’d checked to see if it made sense, the same he’d given Alfred even knowing they’d be as see-through as gauze to his oldest friend.  He was lonely, in a certain way, but merely having John in the house didn’t solve that, and he could have picked anyone if it were just a body to warm another empty room.  What he’d seen in John’s eyes that day, however, had made the decision for him.  

There was anger, hurt and bitterness in most of the boys that came through the door for Alfred’s classes, in most of the faces Bruce encountered when he made his show of rounds to the orphanages his foundation funded.  It was to be expected after all they’d gone through in order to be dumped into the system’s last resort at keeping them off the streets.  Not all of them, however, held a fire within them burning like coal behind their eyes.  Bruce could feel his own, at times, had been told by Alfred that he smoldered within, and it was that flame that he’d seen flickering in the brown eyes that cautiously surveyed the manor, that eyed the sandwiches before their owner surreptitiously packed some away in his pockets.  Eyes that had seen an opportunity to rebalance the excessive wealth held within the manor to lend to their owner’s continued survival.  

The truth was, he nearly needed to have John stay more than the boy might need the hand up.  The sight of them, those eyes and their bright burning, even inside the house in which he’d grown up, had made a need to protect their fire rise in him, a need to nurture it; they had felt eerily like _home_.  Letting them walk out the door for good had not seemed an available option.

Chirping sounds interrupted his thoughts, and he reached into his pocket to pull out the small cell phone he hated bothering with.  All manner of gadgets and contraptions were attached to the Bat’s suits, holed up in the cave, and he used them well, found a manner of delight in them, but the simple necessity of carrying a cell phone during the day just seemed an unnecessary annoyance.  

_“Master Bruce?”_ came the accented voice on the other end, Alfred, of course, one of only three people who had the number to begin with.  

“Here,” he replied as he held the small flip phone to his head, brows knitting in anticipation of whatever must be wrong.

_“It appears we have a small problem, sir,”_ the older man spoke calmly, _“a bit of a situation with the, uh, the east study.”_  The last two words were emphasized, and Bruce was away from the window in a moment, gathering his things.  

“I’ll be right home.”

Alfred didn’t have to say any more.  There were, of course, many problems he could think of that would involve that room of the house, but the infliction in his voice left it clear the issue involved the hidden elevator entrance, and he could only imagine that also meant it involved John.  If he’d have made a guess of if, and apparently when, the boy would have discovered anything he kept hidden, he wouldn’t have thought it would have been quite so soon.  If he were honest with himself, it might have been nice to have someone else who knew, to share his secrets with, but a teenager probably wasn’t the right person for that, all things considered.

Alfred met him in the garage.  “Unless he’s found a way out down below, sir, he’s still there.  Nothing’s come back up the lift, and the door was open when I found it.”  They made their way upstairs quickly, flipping the lever to pull the elevator cage up the chain, its rattling echoing in the top of the cavern’s opening.  

“You didn’t want to chase him down yourself?” Bruce asked when Alfred didn’t join him inside the cage.

Alfred’s response was cheerful.  “Happy to leave that to you, sir, what with it being your secret.”  

Lips pursed, Bruce sent the elevator down, alone in it, finding the light systems he’d installed already turned on when the cage landed at the base of the cavern.  “John?” he called out, hearing his voice echo back as he stepped out onto the sheet of rock, eyeing the supercomputer station, the bat suit container, and the raised central platform on which sat the tumbler.  He didn’t see the boy right away, calling again, and started to wonder if he’d swum through the water to get out by the falls.  

Until he heard a whoop.  

“This place… is fucking AWESOME,” the shout sounded from deeper into the cave… and _up_.

Turning, he shielded his eyes from the brighter bulbs between him and the source of the shout, spotting a dark form halfway up an access rope, suspended in the air.  His first instinct was to run to help him, to make sure he didn’t fall, that he wasn’t hurt, but as he took a step closer, he could already see that the rope was wrapped securely around the boy’s leg, looped over and between his feet, and that he had both hands firmly clasped around it; he was steady.  Still keeping an eye on him, Bruce slipped his hands into his pockets in a more outwardly casual gesture, walking over until he was mostly underneath the rope, a few feet back so he could look up more easily.

“I see you went exploring,” he commented lightly.  There was no use in being deceptive, now, or even acting upset.  He was the one with the secret, after all.  

“I fucking _knew_ it, you know,” John called out as he slid himself carefully down the rope to plant his bare feet on the damp rock.  “I _knew_ there was something going on with you.”  There was the glint of excitement in his eyes, a breathless quality to his voice.

That certainly hadn't been the reaction he'd expected.  Waiting until the boy was stable, Bruce gestured toward the elevator.  "Come upstairs with me," he invited, "and we'll talk."  Taking about the Bat while in the cave would go quite different than back in the house.  It was one thing to share with John, it was another to show the mask.

The gesture itself turned out to be a complete waste, as John didn't bother looking at him once he was down.  "Did you have to dig any of it, or is it all natural?" he was already asking almost before Bruce had finished speaking.  "I mean, it _looks_ natural, but you've been back, what, almost a year, right?  You could have had a lot of work done in here."  Stepping away from the rope, John walked toward the dock platform's edge, peering down at the dark water.  “Of course, you _have_ done a lot of work, but some’s just obvious.”

"John," Bruce called more firmly.  When the boy finally turned, Bruce raised his brows, holding his arm back once more.  "Let's talk upstairs."  It took several more moments, but John finally nodded, stepping over to Bruce with a final look out over the vaulting space of the cavern. 

"So it's really you," John breathed out upstairs, breaking the silence that had ridden up the elevator with them.  "I've been watching as much of the news reports as I could, when the TV in the common room didn't get switched to kids’ shows for the little guys.  You're amazing," he bubbled out, his hands unable to stay still, it seemed, along with the rest of him as he paced in front of Bruce in the study.  His entire countenance had changed, shifted from closed off and tightly protected to wide-eyed and bouncing.

"It is, and thank you," Bruce acknowledged quietly, in sharp contrast to John's excited eruptions.  "We should talk, though."

"Fuck, man; we are, aren't we?"

A chuckle found its way out of him, despite himself.  "We are.  No one can know what you saw down there, John... it's imperative that it stay hidden, secret," he urged, meeting John's gaze when it was directed his way.

"No, yeah, I know," came the quick agreement, a wave of his hand.  "I mean, I won’t tell anyone, but it wasn't too hard to work out a guess, if you know what I mean."

Pausing, Bruce lifted an eyebrow.  "Not quite sure I follow," he said, unsure if John was truly saying he figured out his secret easily.

"There's only so many people in this city who could actually _be_ Batman, you know?"  When Bruce didn't respond, John continued, "Well, whoever it was had to have the money for all of the equipment—barring a rich benefactor or something, but in this town, and with how he shows up, you gotta figure he works completely alone—and he can't work any day job, even in business, because he's out all night."  He'd begun to pace again.  "Then you gotta figure he'd have to have good reason to want to break up the city's underbelly, to make all that effort.  So he's been hurt, or he's lost something...  sounding familiar?"  He turned a grin in Bruce's direction that lit up his face for a moment.  "And now I know for sure, I've seen it."

It was impressive, really, for someone his age, for the life he led, to have put that much thought into it.  "Well," he said, "when you put it that way." 

"I won't tell anyone, I swear," John promised, his face turned more solemn.  "I bet you could use a hand sometimes, though, right?" 

"A hand, hmm?"

"Yeah, kinda like a sidekick, like in comic books.  I could be that, I could totally be that."

Bruce blinked in surprise then had to laugh lightly.  "So, you steal from me, and now want to be my partner?"  It was almost a tease, but he needed to test him.  There was that fire in his eyes still, not merely some kid finding himself hero-struck, but a need in him to do something, to be a part of something.  Bruce had never once thought of taking on a partner, and he wouldn't want to endanger the life of anyone else, especially someone so young, someone in his charge, but maybe he could find _some_ way for the boy to help.


	6. Chapter 6

John had seen computers before, but they weren't something he'd ever had regular access to in order to get used to using them.  He could turn a desk model on and off, use a mouse, type, but anything other than basic navigation was beyond his experience.  At least, it _had_ been.

Three weeks had gone by since he'd sneaked through the manor and stumbled upon the cave.  He'd argued his case that he was street-smart, that he knew the city, the Narrows especially, but Wayne had been immovable on the subject of John going out with the Batman at night.  For the moment, he was content to let it go.  Instead, Wayne was teaching him how to use what he called a 'supercomputer'.  Its programs were somewhat south of legal, but it allowed for a lot more research than he could have on his own, even with his money, and with no paper trail—ideal for a hiding Bat.

Living outside the city limits, now, meant that he was no longer enrolled in the high school he'd attended while at St. Swithin's, and Wayne had hired a private tutor to come to the manor three days a week to help him finish his education.  Even Wayne had admitted that a lot of what was taught in those years wasn’t necessary for many life paths, but it was important to have the paperwork, to earn the state-issued diploma, not only for how it looked with Wayne taking him in, but also for whatever John planned to do with his life.  That last topic was thankfully left alone for the moment, however.

John's court date had come and gone.  Wayne had bought him a suit to wear, and they'd shown up, but the officer who'd pressed the charges initially had dropped them, not attending his own hearing, and John had been let off the hook with a warning that next time he wouldn't be so lucky.  Wayne had had a quiet look of satisfaction on his face, and though John wondered if he'd had something to do with the man's change of heart, he didn't ask.  He was glad enough to be done with the whole problem.

Now, he was sitting in the cave, his lesson time over with for the day, and though he'd finished the tasks Wayne had left for him, he hadn't yet gone back upstairs.  A thought had struck him, and he'd started looking into the police case files that were on their database.  Wayne's business, at least the immediate, had finished years ago, he knew that from reading the story that was retold what seemed like every few weeks.  Joe Chill, the man who'd shot Wayne's parents, had gone to jail for years, and had then been shot at the courthouse because he had had information about Falcone, and no one got to Falcone.  John's, on the other hand, had never been resolved.

The drunk driver who'd hit his mom's car and killed her had gotten off scot-free, a corrupt lawyer and a paid-off judge turning an open and shut case into a farce.  There had been two men who had been sent to kill his dad.  No one had ever talked details with him, but it didn't take a genius to work out that his dad's gambling debts were the cause, and the person who controlled most of the illegal gambling accounts in Gotham was Falcone.  As a kid, there has been nothing he could do, but now, with Wayne's resources, maybe he could finally settle the score.

Looking up sharply, he quickly excited the databases, clearing the terminal's history as he heard the clang of the elevator chain being called back up.  Wayne was home, or Alfred was coming to check on him, but either way, he didn't want to discuss the project just yet, not until he had more of a plan in mind.  In its place, he brought up the last of Wayne's assignments, despite the fact he'd already finished.

Keeping his attention focused behind him but facing the screen, he didn't hear any footsteps after the cage settled on the rock below, and knew then it was Wayne, not Alfred.  While he had little doubt the old man was capable of doing his own creeping around and sneaking up on people, he hadn't shown that just yet.  Wayne, on the contrary, could walk around as if he were a ghost or something.  A shadow.

"Finished already?" Wayne asked from directly behind John.  Sneaking, as usual.  To his own credit, John didn't jump or even twitch.

"Yeap," he answered, swiveling the chair around to face him. He blinked, then, and let out a short, sharp laugh. "Nice bow tie," he teased lightly. There was a kind of familiarity that had arisen quickly between them, something John couldn’t recall having with anyone else in his life. It was presumptuous, maybe, but he wondered if that was how it felt to have a brother, not just another boy that slept in the same room for a few years.

Straightening the carefully twisted piece of cloth, Wayne pursed his lips.  "I have an event to attend, this evening, actually," he explained.  Looking back up, he leveled John with a steady look, holding out a strip of black cloth in his direction, letting it dangle down from his fingers.  "And I'm bringing you with me."

"Okay, okay, I take it back," John spoke quickly, hands held up in front of him.  "Really, it's a nice tie, you look all sophisticated and everything."

The corner of Wayne’s mouth ticked up slightly, just enough to be noticeable, and John knew he was enjoying the effect of the announcement.  "Thank you," he began, "but I'd still like you to come with me.  If I let you stay in the house all the time, out of sight, people will get all manner of ideas.  It's important to let the city know you're alive and well, show them how you're adjusting to your new life."

"And that means _parties_?" he asked, taking the tie and turning the material over in his hands, not even knowing how it actually worked.

"Sometimes," Wayne nodded.  "Go on, get cleaned up; Alfred has a suit ready for you all laid out."

Never in his life, not even in the fantasies and stories that were made up around the boys' home, had John imagined he'd be sitting in a Lamborghini, wearing a tux, on his way into the city to a party full of rich people.  Even as he sat there, even as it was happening, he had trouble believing it.  Though he was safe, Wayne used the car to its potential, hugging corners, beating other cars out from stoplights, pushing the bounds of even relatively following the speed limits.  The way it threw John back into his seat had his heart beating faster, and he couldn't help a small grin when they finally rolled to a stop outside a tall hotel building.

Wayne didn't mention it, but motioned him out of the car as he climbed out, giving the keys to a man in a vest, a valet, John guessed.  The second John stood on the sidewalk, there were flashes blinding him.  He put up his hand to block the light from his eyes, but Wayne came up beside him and gently lowered it.

"It's an important part of the night, John," he spoke quietly by his ear as he leaned in, his fake smile already playing on his face, flashing brightly, though much dimmer to John than the camera bulbs.  "Just smile with me, even a little, and we'll head inside."

_Even a little, eh?_ he thought, finding himself somewhat amused.  He was practiced at smiling, too, and he opened his lips to flash his own, stepping up with Bruce as he moved along to let different reporters get their shots in, until at last they were walking through the large, double glass doors opened on each side by other vest-wearing men.  It felt like John was entering some kind of castle, though he supposed that those inside were their own kind of royalty, where the rest of the city's people were concerned.

The inside of the hotel was brighter and cleaner than any building he'd ever seen.  It was also full of people, people that immediately turned to stare at Wayne and, he realized, at John.  A buzz of whispers followed the looks, and with an uncomfortable shift of his shoulders under the suit jacket, he wondered what exactly they were saying about him.  Though he wasn't sure how much he really cared about their opinions, he'd never had so much attention aimed directly at him before. 

With a light touch of his hand to John's back, Wayne directed him to a side room that was less full of guests.  "How are you doing so far?" he asked quietly.

John snorted in return.  "We've barely gotten in; gimme some time to panic, why don't you?"  Surprised at the offer, he took an outstretched narrow glass of champagne from Wayne when he lifted two off of a tray someone carried past.  He raised an eyebrow, but Wayne simply shrugged and gestured for him to drink.

"Before we get back out there and they start questioning my choices as your guardian," he directed.  John didn't need to be told twice.  It was bubbly, bitter, and not really all that tasty, but it warmed his stomach a little, and just the idea made him feel like maybe he'd make it through just fine.  The fact that Wayne made a barely-visible frown as he drank his made John feel a bit better about not liking it, too.

With the glasses set down and abandoned on a table John wasn't sure was meant to be carrying empties, Wayne led the way back out to the hall and across to a larger room.  The sign above its open double doors had a name and 'ballroom' set into the wall, but John didn't see any balls or game equipment, so that seemed an odd choice.  There were tables along the sides of the room, but the main part of the floor was open, and there were people standing and talking, and also others dancing.  The second one made John feel even more out of place.

As if he could sense it, Wayne clasped a hand over John's shoulder, steering them towards a table.  "There's no need to go out onto the floor, don't worry," he said as John sat, his eyes on dancing bodies and gently swishing dresses.

"Yeah, uh, dancing's not really my thing," he replied, about to say more before being interrupted by a honey-smooth voice from beside and behind him.

"Bruce Wayne, at a charity ball?" intoned the voice of the woman who stepped around John's chair to face Wayne.  The black dress she wore was sleek, form-fitting but not tight in an attention-seeking way, and, from what John could tell, complemented the curves of her body quite well.  It took a moment for him to register that her face was quite beautiful, as well.

Wayne didn't seem to react as strongly, but he also clearly knew her from the small, polite smile he tossed on.  "Miss Tate," he inclined his head in her direction, "not surprising to see you here, on the other hand."

"Someone has to make sure the city's donations go where they should," Miss Tate replied, a teasing tone to her voice, if John was interpreting it correctly.  "We cannot all hide in mansions outside city limits, after all."  There was no mistaking the tease that time, but Wayne didn't seem eager to take the bait.  "I thought perhaps you might join me for a song," she continued when Wayne was silent, gesturing to the middle of the room.  "I often find conversations go more smoothly with a bit of movement."

Wayne made a thoughtful noise.  "And what conversation would that be, then?"

"We are not dancing yet, Mister Wayne," she reminded him, holding out her hand for him to take.  John bit back a snort at how obvious her flirting was in the moment.

There was a moment of hesitation on Wayne's part, but he nodded, looking down at John where he sat.  "I'll just be a few minutes, John," he said as if it were nothing, "will you be alright?"

Before John could even respond with any manner of semi-respectful way of saying no, no, he _wouldn't_ be alright while Wayne went off dancing, Miss Tate had butted in.  "Oh, he'll be just fine," she assured Wayne, who'd already taken her hand over his arm, "he looks a charmer, and there _are_ young ladies in attendance."  She chuckled, the kind of sound that meant she was getting her way, that she was right, and she began to lead Wayne across the floor.

Holding a hand out, palm facing John, fingers splayed, Wayne mouthed 'five minutes' as he walked away.

And that was how John ended up sitting alone, at an empty table, in the middle of a rich man's party.


	7. Chapter 7

Five minutes, he'd promised John, and he had little reason to think he couldn't keep that promise.  Miranda Tate was known in Gotham for her charity work, for her persuasiveness in getting those with deep pockets to empty them in the direction of her projects.  She'd worked her way into Bruce's more than once, and was inevitably ready to do so again, but he could handle her.

They talked briefly, the usual pleasantries, about her work, how the company fared, and she always asked about Alfred despite having only met him once at a gala Bruce had held at the manor.  He stayed for two songs, just long enough for her to mention one of her current interests—immigrant families, in Gotham on temporary visas, who were trying to stay permanently as citizens.  There was a lot of opposition throughout the districts, mostly seeded in old prejudices that had no place in a diverse city—or anywhere else, for that matter.  Bruce agreed to provide the project with a steady, set amount of funding, and they ended on the usual; 'my people will call your people, and we'll set it up'.

By the time he waded through the crowd and found his way back to John, the boy was looking agitated.  A bit of guilt gnawed at his stomach for leaving him alone, but there were many things involved with attending these functions.  "Sorry about that," he spoke as he approached, getting his attention.  "Miranda is a leader among those in the city trying to do good, to really help people."

"What's she do?" aimed back at him, John's eyes not on Bruce but focused across the room, toward where Bruce had left—perhaps having settled on Miss Tate.

"Well, she organizes funding for homeless shelters, for safe and more affordable lower-income housing projects, among other things.  Right now, she's working on helping people who came from out of the country to work and live here, helping them stay here permanently, the ones that want to."  There were more complicated aspects of Miranda's work, of course, but the basics were all that was important just then.  It was enough, earning a nod and no more questions from John.

"Listen," Bruce spoke as he stepped closer, "how about we wander just a little more, meet and greet a few more people, get you seen, and then head out and get you some pizza or something?  We won't tell Alfred," he added with a wink.

The suggestion perked him up, and they finished their necessary schmoozing, including a few words with a local reporter who wanted the inside scoop on the story of John's move.  She left her card, handing it directly to John with a look and a wink that amused Bruce, only seeming to earn a startled, confused look from John.  She walked away with a smile, probably assuming she could get more out of a naïve teen than a defensive billionaire, but she probably wasn’t counting on how guarded the boy was.  His expression was endearing, even so.

They left early, to the clamor of the crowds of photographers that always had Bruce wondering how useful it really was for them to stand outside city events the entire time, in the cold, with so little going on until the end.  It was definitely unconventional to roll up to a pizza joint in a car that cost more than the building, but Bruce had been there before, at times when he'd needed to just get away from everyone, and the owner never made any comments to the press—of course, his tips were likely encouragement enough, but in truth Bruce believed the man would keep quiet even without them.

It became a bit of a tradition for them over the next few weeks, attending an event, leaving early, finding some side street food to contrast the overwhelming finery they'd slogged through for the earlier part of the evening.  John was familiar with several places, but they were more careful with those, given the part of the city.  When they did go, though, John's eyes were always sweeping, alert of their surroundings, eyeing the people they passed.  It seemed to Bruce like he was canvassing each location, but he never mentioned why, and Bruce let it go for the moment.  There was plenty of time for him to open up about his life, about his feelings regarding the Narrows, at least the things he didn't already talk about with regards to the Bat.  Even so, Bruce felt they were becoming closer, the more time they spent out together.

It had been a full week since they'd attended any organized parties or events, and Bruce came home early from the company offices, planning to go back out that night.  Not finding John in his bedroom or the rooms he generally holed up in, he had to be directed by Alfred to the gym downstairs. 

"He's been spending a good bit of his time there, lately, Master Bruce," Alfred told him as they made their way down.  "Getting strong, he is."

"Strong?  Any boy who can fight off a sizeable sleazy cop sounds strong enough to me," he argued.

Alfred laughed lightly.  "Well," he corrected himself, "strong _er_." 

Bruce could immediately see the evidence of the claim as they stepped into the space devoted to a state-of-the-art home gym.  There was a small towel laid over the railing of the treadmill, free weights scattered in one corner, and John was lying on the bench press table working on a bar with medium-sized weights.  Walking over without word, Bruce took hold of the center of the bar, startling the boy who had turned the radio up while he worked.

"If you're going to do presses like this," he advised as he lifted the bar with a single hand and set it back on its rack above John's head, "you should have a spotter with you, to keep it safe."  He kept the tone serious, but not chiding.  John wasn't in trouble, but it was a good precaution to teach him.

With his face a steady mask that Bruce had come to interpret as a scowl, John sat up, swiping a hand over the sweat gathered on his forehead.  "I can handle it," he defended. 

"I'm not saying you can't, but it's for safety, just in case."  Bruce waited, hands in his pockets, while John retrieved a bottle of water and downed half.

"Can we turn this off?" Bruce asked, holding a hand out toward the radio. 

Pointing the water bottle at it, John nodded.  "I want to talk, actually," he spoke up, sitting down on another bench.  "I want to do more, get more involved.”  With the music gone, his voice lowered to a more even volume.  “I'm ready.  You know I could help with what goes on in the Narrows; I grew up there."

"All the reason to keep you out of it," Bruce returned.

John's stare leveled with him, the fire in his eyes smoldering.  "So you think you're the only one who can help?  Just because you're rich, you're the only savior?"  It was a challenge, and Bruce found himself rising to it.

"No, I never said that," he kept his words carefully spoken, his tone steady, "but I've had training that you haven't, practice with—"

"Then _train_ me," John cut in sharply, nearly pleading.  The request had been coming, building steadily with the more time passed that John knew, the more Bruce let him be even marginally involved.

Not sitting but pacing slowly across from the boy, his own mind restless, fingers tapping his chin, Bruce let out a thoughtful noise.  "It wouldn't hurt to teach you some things, defense, skills to keep you safe," he led, "but I just don't think it's a good idea to have you out there with him, John."

John stood then, setting the bottle aside, emptied.  "Good idea for who, for _you_?  Or for _me_."  There was suspicion in his tone, perhaps even a hint of betrayal.  "Because you can't expect me to keep this secret, to live here, knowing, to know what's going on in the city and not _help_."

"And you _are_ helping, John."

It was John's turn to pace, and he punctuated the move to his feet with a snort.  "The computer's great, Bruce, but it's not enough, it's not all I could do with you."  His posture and countenance shifted suddenly, and he stopped, facing Bruce with a twitch to the corner of his mouth, his fingers restless.  "Can I show you something?" he asked, voice more quiet.

Show _him_ something?  Bruce couldn't help being curious, and he nodded.  "Alright."

The twitch turning into a controlled grin, John disappeared into a storage closet across the room.  Bruce's curiosity intensified when a zipping sound could be heard from inside, and he considered asking, but John reemerged a moment later, and he then understood.

"So," John asked, stepping out to stand a few feet in front of Bruce, "what do you think?"


	8. Chapter 8

He'd been waiting for two days to find the right time, and this had to be it.  No matter what Bruce's answer was, he would know John was serious.  And, with a suit of his own, he didn't need Bruce's permission, not if he played it right.

The suit itself had been a birthday present from Alfred, sort of.  John had gone to him for help, had explained his reasoning, had promised—perhaps a little less than genuinely—not to use it if Bruce said no, and had shown him the designs he'd made.  It needed to be similar to the Batman's, but not just the same.  He'd added color, a stripe of blue that ran from the fingertips of the gloves all the way to the center of the chest, with a point downward and the silhouette of a bird's head rising up.  He never went by his first name, but having a kind of bird as a symbol still felt right.

Alfred hadn't made it himself, of course, but had told John that the same man who had given Bruce his suits could adapt something for him.  They'd gotten his measurements, and when they had one that fit, John painted the design himself, with a little trial and error.  So when he put it on, stepping out to show Bruce, he wore it with hope and pride, standing tall as he asked for his opinion.

For a moment or two that felt more like an hour stretched out just to fuck with him, Bruce just stared, looking at the suit without a word.  When he did speak, John kept his jaw set firmly, his back straight, reminding himself that no matter what he said, no matter what his reason would be, he had his suit and he would do what he needed to do.

"Well," Bruce began, hands still in his pockets in a maddeningly casual way, "it's a good piece of equipment."

Biting down on his calm to keep it in place, John let out a breath through his nose.  "Any other thoughts?"  He allowed his voice to drag on the close of the word, the question leading.

"John," Bruce’s voice became softer, "it is a good suit, it fits you well, it looks good, but a suit won't keep you safe."

"That's what the fucking _training_ is for!"  He couldn't keep the yell inside, despite attempts to stay calm.  "I asked you to train me, I'm ready, _that_ will keep me safe.  Even if you tell me no every time, you can't keep me safe every second, for the rest of my life."  Cutting off Bruce's words with his hands held up in front, he continued, "You offered a place in your home for me, and I'm really fucking grateful, I am, it's great, and I'm happy not to be on the street or in jail, _believe_ me, but you can't keep me cooped up in here and expect me to be okay with that, to not fight it."

He could feel his own anger rising, the kind that he couldn't always control, and maybe Bruce sensed its heat, as he finally raised his own hands, as if in defeat.  "Okay, okay," he spoke evenly, not approaching John though clearly wanting to calm him.  It was smart or lucky, since people usually ended up hurt if they tried to forcibly calm him down.  "Let's talk about this, but you can't just angrily make demands and expect them to be carried out, either."

"Bruce," his teeth ground on the word, his breathing unsteady, "I'm going to do this with or without your training, with or without your blessing, and with our without your permission.  So if you want to keep me safe, you'd better fucking _train_ me."

There was a heated silence, Bruce's face a tight mask, not reacting in kind to John's anger.  "Alright," Bruce said at last, "we'll start first thing in the morning."  With that he turned, walking back to the doorway.  "We'll talk about this later," he added to Alfred more quietly before leaving.

It took more control than he liked to keep from throwing something in his frustration.  He'd won, he'd gotten Bruce to agree to train him, but he could recognize it was going to be on Bruce's terms, and he was not likely to go at a pace John wanted if he was reluctant and feeling forced into it.  He needed this, needed to get out there and find the men he was looking for and make them pay, and right now this was the only way to do that, playing by Bruce's rules.  Even if he was manipulating the game.  Alfred wasn't pleased at being misled, and warned John that he would not be a pawn between them, but John hadn't alienated him just yet.  That was good, because he knew he'd need his help again, too. 

‘First thing in the morning’ turned out to be more of a first thing than John had expected.  The sun wasn't anywhere close to breaking the city's horizon when the sheets covering him were suddenly stripped off in one fluid motion.  There was no light, and he could only hear a deeper, more grating version of Bruce's voice telling him to get up. 

"Now," it insisted.

_You wanted this_ , he reminded himself as he rolled off the mattress, setting his feet on the floor and grateful for the rug they landed on once stepping away found only colder hardwood.  With eyes that hardly stayed open, proving little difference in the dark, John dressed in the most loose-fitting clothes he could find of what he'd been given since moving in, and entered the hall. 

Bruce was already out there, waiting for him.  Or maybe it wasn't really Bruce at all, skulking around with the low voice.  With a shiver running up his spine at the shadowy figure that motioned for him to follow, the full realization hit him: he was training with _the Batman_.  But the Batman didn't lead them down to the cave.  Instead, they made their way up, to a staircase, the entry of which John, in passing, would only have guessed was another storage closet.

The stairs were winding, narrow, and John could hear the whistle of the wind through the house's outer wall.  "They're service stairs," grated the shrouded voice in front of and above him.  He couldn't actually see his body, or hear his footfalls, and for all he knew, if logic didn't ground him, the Batman was flying his way up ahead of John.

With a sharp twist, the stairs finally opened up into a large space full of creaking and dust.  Very small recessed windows high up on the walls would likely let in more than a hazy blue glow if it were past sunrise.  Their illumination didn't reach very far, and it wasn't helpful in discerning the makeup of the room except for intimating that it was large, and it only made more of a wraith out of Bruce's form as he moved through the dark away from John. 

"Do you ever even use this place?" John asked quietly as he turned around slowly, trying to make a mental map as well as he could in the dark.  The air inside even smelled empty, only dust and staleness meeting his nose with each breath.  There was no response to his question, and by the time he turned around, something had swung against his calves, taking his legs out from under him and landing him on his ass.  "The fuck?"

"Rule number one," grated the Batman's voice from somewhere above him, "be aware of your surroundings."

"Or I'll land on my ass, I got it," he said with a grunt.  Standing, he tried to listen for where he could have gone, but he only heard his own breathing and the creak of the house.

"Or you could get yourself killed," the voice clarified, "or risk the lives of others you're trying to save."

He felt it then, coming at him from the side, and he sidestepped just in time to feel the wind of what would have been an impact to his shoulder.  What it was, he couldn't even tell, but that part was less important.  Almost immediately, another tingle ran up the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he ducked, rolling out of the way as the Batman landed exactly in the spot he'd just been occupying.  At least, he assumed he landed, since a second later there was nothing there once again. 

"Good," came the quiet approval, the sound still bouncing around the rafters and making it impossible for John to pinpoint where he'd gone.  It went on the same way for longer than John could tell, having no clock or watch to check.  It couldn't have been too long, however, as the sun had yet to break over the horizon enough to illuminate the room; unless even those windows were a trick, a farce, to disorient him.  What if...

There was no time to dwell on that what-if, however, as the wraith reappeared, closer, able to be heard and felt, and John whirled around to meet it.  An arm flashed in front of his face, and he raised his own to block it, this at least feeling familiar.  No stranger to a street fight, John held his own even though he figured Bruce obviously had to be going easy on him.  They traded blows and blocks, ducking, dodging, dancing their way around the floor, the boards creaking in protest.  One complained more sharply, and John quickly leapt to the side, leading the Batman, until his own boot hit the spot and John heard it crack.

He didn't go down, but John knew exactly how his body turned, then, and he lunged for him.  Holding back the yell that tried to force out of his lungs, he grabbed the Batman's shoulders, using his momentum to drive him back, his foot swiping over the crack as he compensated, tipping him just enough that they both toppled to the wooden slats beneath them, John on top, unable to keep a triumphant grin from his face.

"I fucking got you," he panted out, straddling the other man's waist to keep him down but letting go of his grip on his shoulders.  That turned out to be a mistake.  In an instant, so quickly he wasn't even sure how they'd moved, he found himself with his back on the floor, and Bruce's weight pressed down above him, instead.  "The fuck?" he cried, startled.

"Never assume your opponent is finished from only one fall," Bruce's voice intoned.  "Otherwise, it'll likely be _you_ on the ground.  He could be faking a defeat to catch you off your guard... just like that."

Grunting his agreement, John wiggled to get out from under the hold, noting the faint rays of light finally starting to work their way through the windows.  He could see Bruce's face, then, and wondered if that was the reason for the return of his voice to normal.  Readjusting the position of his legs, having stayed on either side of Bruce's waist even as they'd rolled, he caught a shift in the other man's expression, almost imperceptible, but definitely there.  John was quickly released, and it took him only that moment to understand.

He was glad, however, as it made a sharp contrast between Bruce and the creepy cops on the street, the ones like Hamilton.  It was also amusing, and John found himself letting out a quiet laugh.  "Can't handle pinning a boy down?" he asked, a smirk teasing up the edge of his mouth.

Quiet only for a moment, Bruce sat back on his heels.  "I didn't want you feeling trapped," he covered, and it _was_ a cover; John had made enough of those to know it when he saw it.  "We're training, not repeating what that cop may have done."

"Hey, no," he interjected quickly.  "That asshole never laid a hand on me.  He fucking knew better."  Though it wasn't as if he'd never tried, it was true, he'd never touched John.  None of the dirty cops ever did, not like that.  They roughed him up, but he fought them too well to be worth their dicks getting bitten. 

Bruce regarded him for a moment, then nodded as he stood.  "Good.  It seems you're a step ahead of where you could be, which is good," he added, "it means we can move more quickly."

"More quickly?"

Bruce's mouth pressed closed tightly.  "There is a lot to teach you, John.  I spent years learning, but I know your patience won't hold out that long.  We'll see how far we can get in a couple of months, okay?"

John nodded in quick agreement, not wanting to wait months before going out, but eager to take what he could from Bruce if he was offering.  "And until then?" he asked, knowing if Bruce said to stay in that he'd likely go out anyway.

"Daytime," was Bruce's answer.  "Scout out what you're going to need to do during the day, so you're sure of yourself by nightfall."

"So I'm going out at night, too?"

"Not yet, but you'll need practice, and," he leveled a look at John that was far more serious, more full of recognition than he liked, "if you're hunting certain people in particular, you're going to need their patterns, know where they go, who they work with, who they talk to, where they eat, where they sleep, who they fuck.  You get that down, really down, and you show me, and we'll talk about what needs to be done."

John listened silently, half-surprised at the plain way he spelled it out.  "You mean show _him_ ," he clarified.

"Yes," Bruce responded, turning away and heading for the steps, the lightness in his voice then in contrast to the way it had steadily become more gruff, "I mean _him_."


	9. Chapter 9

John had been reporting in for over a month, keeping a log on the cave's computer of the schedules of three men.  He didn't list names, only distinguishing characteristics of their appearances, but Bruce knew better than to think he didn't already know the identity of each of them.  They weren't randomly chosen, and John had begun his records instantly, leading Bruce to believe he'd already had them in mind, just like he'd suspected before giving him his instructions.  Though he didn't ask, not yet, it was more than a safe assumption that the men he was stalking had been involved in his father's shooting.  

For his first time gathering information patiently, he was doing well.  The boy had a natural talent for making connections, for discerning what was useful and what was incidental.  Bruce was impressed, frankly, and thought that, if nothing else, he made a good investigator.  With better physical training, discipline...  Nothing was going to make Bruce like the idea of John going into the city like the Bat did, but he also recognized the same need burning inside of John that he had himself.  Just like him, John needed to make things right, to ease the burden of his city.  Who was Bruce to sit in judgment, holding the tools that could help him do it, and say that he couldn't?

The idea hadn't been appealing at first, but as time went on, as they drew closer to the end of John's two months of trial, Bruce was starting to think maybe he'd like having someone fighting by his side.  He'd never thought of himself as a teacher, a mentor, but John needed his guidance, and that drew it out of him.  There weren't enough years between them for Bruce to feel like a parent figure, more like an older brother, perhaps, but even brothers could be guided.  

Tonight was a different kind of test for John's skills.  He'd already been out, doing his tracking, but now Bruce was tracking _him_.  Warning him would take away its value, and so as far as John knew, Bruce was at a charity function that night.  Full suit with cape and cowl would be too easy for his student to spot, its full theatricality unnecessary and only in the way, and so he wore a black practice suit, similar to the kind he'd worn at the temple.  

John, of course, wore his own, though he'd chosen the color well, and the blue didn't shine in the darkness any more than the black.  Even so, Bruce's more practiced eyes followed his movements easily.  He'd kept to the Narrows for the whole evening, close to the bars Bruce knew Falcone and his outfit frequented.  It further confirmed his suspicion that Falcone's men had been responsible for John's father's death.  It made sense, with what John had told him.

Near midnight, Bruce closed in on his student.  Whenever John stopped, he paused a rooftop behind, or two landings up on a fire escape staircase, whichever was needed.  His movements were silent, no more than the shifting of air that intermittently slipped between buildings. John's, which he'd expected to be more noticeable, were quite stealthy in their own right.  The effort was admirable.  There was much to teach him, but he had his own talents, already.

Just as he was about to swoop down and grab John, a sound caught his attention above, like someone joining them on the stair.  Their game needed to remain private, and so he turned, ready to take care of whatever was behind him, but found nothing, no one.  

_Of course._

He'd barely whirled back around before he was tackled to the landing by John's smaller frame.  No blows came, only a strengthening pair of hands securely pinning his shoulders.

"I got you," a hushed voice boasted.

In a flash, Bruce grasped John's arms, his legs cinched on either side of the boy's torso, and rolled them so that John was on his back, instead.  "So you did," he congratulated.  There was an immediate struggle, John making a valiant effort to break Bruce's hold and regain the upper hand.  The effort went unrewarded, and John at least wasn't frustrated. In fact, he looked smug.

"I fucking got you," he repeated.  "And don't play it off like you weren't paying attention, or you were going easy on me, I don't care.  I got you."  Finally settled, John watched him for a quiet moment before speaking again with a quirked eyebrow.  "Gonna get off me?"

Slowly letting his grip relax, Bruce was once again overly aware of the body beneath his, its warmth, its steadily building muscle.  However irrational, he felt the desire to keep it in his grasp, but knew he couldn't.  Brows pinching slightly toward the bridge of his nose, he sat back to allow John space to rise up.  Except the boy didn't move.

"It excites you, doesn't it?" he asked, merely propping his body up with his elbows.  When Bruce started to ask for clarification, John waved a hand and interjected, "And not just the chase...  It excites you to fight and pin me down."

For a moment, Bruce had no words.  He blinked, trying to form a response, knowing he should already have one for such a suggestion, but there were none forthcoming.  Not only had the question been unexpected, it had hit the nail on the head for the pattern of his thoughts right that moment, and that wasn't a thing he was used to happening except perhaps with Alfred, who knew him so much better than he knew himself at times.  Unfortunately, his silence only seemed to confirm John's question.

"It's okay, you know," he added, "that it does.  I mean, at least you're not a jerk about it, you know?"  A shrug lifted his shoulders, though slight, and while Bruce would have expected him to look away, perhaps embarrassed by the topic, he instead kept his gaze steady on Bruce's.  "It doesn't always have to be a bad thing."

"No," Bruce agreed, "it doesn't.  But that doesn't mean that it's welcomed, either, or appropriate."

"Fuck appropriate," John spat in return, with a roll to his eyes in response to the latter, though not addressing the former term.  "What in my life has been appropriate or normal, anyway?"  It wasn't regret in his eyes or even sadness, but a sort of empty blackness with which Bruce was all too familiar—he frequently found it directed at him in the mirror.  The well of it in John’s gaze had a habit of drawing him in.

Shaking his head, Bruce stood.  Maybe John wasn't upset over him being attracted, but Bruce was the adult; it was his responsibility to stay in control.  "That's true enough," he said, "but that doesn't make it right.  You're very attractive, John, in many ways, but you're young, and someone I've agreed to take care of, to look after and keep safe, not someone to take advantage of."  Reaching back, he pulled the black hood attached to his suit back over his head.  He'd taken it off to ensure John could recognize him even as he was attacked, but intended to return to the manor in better stealth.  "Are you coming back with me now, or spending more time here?"  As far as he was concerned, the other conversation was finished.

Regarding him quietly for a moment in the dim light that filtered through from the street lamps, John at last rose to his feet. "There's a few more things I'd like to check up on, if that's alright."  Bruce assured him that it was, and then left him to it.

While he fully intended to return home soon, he stayed close by for the next hour or so to see where John would be.  As he suspected, his next stop was Falcone's bar, outside of which he sat for the full hour, the only visible sign of his presence a line of smoke rising up from his cigarette.  Bruce had known about the smoking already, but hadn't yet caught him.  That would end up another conversation for later.  

Doing his own watch cycle on the way back out of the city, he arrived home around 3AM, Alfred waiting up for him still.  

"Alone, sir?" he asked as Bruce began to change out of the suit.  There was a small tray of food and a thermos of tea sitting beside the computer console, and he was grateful for the consideration as he downed some of it.  

"For now," he spoke over his shoulder.  "John has a couple of things to finish before he heads back."  How long that would take him, Bruce couldn't be sure.  The boy had no early morning responsibilities, making it even easier for him to spend the entirety of the night hours creeping about the city's alleys and rooftops.

Alfred was in front of him, then, watching him in that quiet way he had, the way that made Bruce aware that he knew something.  When he'd been small, it had been the look that meant he'd been found out on whatever trouble or mischief he'd gotten himself into.  Now, in adulthood, it generally meant his old friend had observed something Bruce couldn't quite see for himself, or did not wish to see.  "What happened during this exercise, Master Bruce?"

Swallowing a mouthful of sandwich, Bruce lifted an eyebrow, feigning ignorance.  "What do you mean?"

Lips pressed into a hard line, Alfred tilted his head forward.  "While I'm sure you met your objectives and taught your boy a lesson—"

"He's not 'my boy,' Alfred," Bruce cut in.

"And there it is," Alfred announced with a waggled finger in the air to emphasize his attention on the matter.  "Just now, when you mentioned Master Blake's name, there was a twitch to your face, a bit of a downward draw to your mouth, both of which are quite unusual, I might add.  And now, when I called him your boy, which he is, since you've chosen to take him in and care for him, and now to teach him, you recoiled so quickly."  Watching him for a moment, Alfred finally repeated the question, this time more expectant, "So what happened?"

Brushing crumbs from his fingertips, Bruce let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head as he thought back over it.  "I've been," he paused, brow pinched as he searched for the right words, "having an attraction to him.  To John.  At least, a physical one.  I've been dismissing it, because I know how bodies can be, even mine at times, but he, uh, he noticed."  

The nod from Alfred signaled he was already familiar with the idea, a fact that wasn't exactly comforting in the moment.  "And he reacted unfavorably?"

"That's just it," Bruce replied with more calm than he felt, "he actually said he didn't mind.  That even though I said it was inappropriate, that at least I wasn't ‘being a jerk’ with it."

"Well, it's likely he's seen his fair share of unwanted advances, isn't it."

"I suppose," Bruce agreed, running both his hands back through his hair, smoothing stray locks that rarely cooperated without some kind of product, unless cooperation meant simply falling into his face.  "But he's just a kid, still."

"No one said that he wasn't," Alfred reminded him quietly.  

"So you agree," he said, turning to face him, "it's inappropriate, no matter if he was interested or not."

"Is he, sir?"

The question took him by surprise, and he found he didn't actually know its answer.

___________________________________

  
Avoiding the issue turned out to be a lot more difficult than Bruce had predicted.  It wasn't the best decision, but it was the immediate one.  It also didn't work very well, at all.  Training exercises still required him to be close to John, and even if there was no contact, he needed to mind his body’s form when practicing combat positions.

While Bruce was no blushing virgin, he'd spent much of his life ignoring or suppressing sexual urges that interfered with whatever was going on in his life at the time.  Keeping to himself meant that there was little opportunity for his body to become interested in a person's continued close presence, and when he was around others there were generally more pressing concerns.  His own time of training—both self-guided as well as his years at the mountain temple—had had him focused, driven, and the environment had, for the most part, been colder both literally and figuratively, much less personal than him teaching John in his attic and in the cave.  Celibacy hadn’t been a requirement at the temple, nor a practice he had found himself in, but at least _there_ Bruce had not felt so _distracted_ by his libido.

It was a problem he couldn't simple ignore anymore.

Especially when it seemed like John was willfully trying to make it more difficult for him.  While he’d assumed at first that it had simply been his imagination, he changed his opinion on the matter when John's body found its way up against Bruce's during training more and more often, and at times that were disadvantageous to the lesson.  When he needed to pin the boy to end a match, Bruce lifted immediately so as not to encourage the squirms John had built a habit of performing beneath him.  

The effect was beginning to distract him even when they were apart, with Bruce in the city for the company or his own patrols.  Even so, short of acknowledging it once again and carrying out an awkward conversation, he hadn't yet figured out a remedy.  

Several weeks were spent the same, and Bruce's control wasn't waning, but the effort was taxing him, stressing his mind.  No matter how awkward, the conversation was overdue.  He made his decision during a hand-to-hand combat match, while John remained a few mere inches from him no matter how they shifted or traversed the floor.  Zeroing in on the combination that would take the boy the floor, thus taking his focus and providing Bruce with an in for their talk, Bruce’s distraction left him open to the error in paying too close attention to elaborate plans instead of watching his opponent's moves.

The result was a reversal—his back on the floor instead of John's.  

His frame on Bruce in an instant, John's smirk a wide and triumphant thing.  Though the usual exclamation of who had gotten whom was expected, it didn't come.  Instead, the smirking face lowered, softening as it approached, and although Bruce was aware that he could stop it, he didn't.  

Unrebuffed, John pressed his mouth to Bruce's.  The touch was firm, not hesitant or inexperienced, and full of more confidence than Bruce would have predicted.  John was no innocent, either, and it showed more vividly as an undaunted tongue pushed at the meeting of Bruce's lips, begging entrance.  Certainly against his better judgment, Bruce let him, parting his lips and sliding his own tongue forward in exchange.  A pleased sound issued quietly from above him, and John's weight resettled from a pinning posture to something more comfortable, more intimate.  

The tangle of fingers into Bruce's hair had him stopping it at last.  "John," he spoke as the boy took a breath.  "I can't."

"Bullshit, you're doing it just fine," came the sarcastic response, a tone of self-amusement.  "I know what you're going to say," he continued when Bruce started to speak, "and save it, I know exactly what I'm doing.  I'm not a virgin, and I'm old enough to know what I want—and we already know you want me, too, so what's the problem?"

It was a calm speech, but it only made Bruce's choice more clear.  "John, the very fact that you need to convince me you're old enough is proof this isn't right."  Rising up carefully so as not to dump him onto the floor, he disengaged their bodies.  "I'm sorry that I let this happen, but nothing more can, understand?"

"I'm not sorry it happened," John pressed, "and neither should you be."  

Feeling the urge to cup his cheek, to smooth his hair or touch his chin, Bruce flexed his fingers but held himself back, needing the distance.  "It was nice, John, very nice, but I'm sorry because I can't give you what you want, not right now, and for that reason I shouldn't have let you kiss me, or have kissed you back."

"Not right now?" John parroted, a dark eyebrow lifting in question.  "So, when?  When I'm trained?  When you get over it?"

"When you're older," he clarified simply.  Holding up his hands, he forestalled the arguments ready to tumble out of the boy's mouth.  "I know you feel all grown up right now, and I respect that, I do, and I think I treat you accordingly most of the time, but for my sake, John, I can't do this."

It took several moments during which John's face was darker, jaw set firmly in thought, but at last he responded.  "How much older?"

That, at least, he had a ready answer for.  "Eighteen," he told him evenly.  "If you're still interested when you're eighteen, then we'll see, alright?  And I'd ask that you not try to sway me before then."  A teenager in his bed was enough of a thing, but an underage one he just couldn't let himself, no matter what amount of kinship he felt with John.

"You're not going to negotiate on this, are you."  It wasn't a question, and Bruce was glad for it.  He shook his head to indicate that he wouldn't, and John let out a frustrated breath. "Well then I've got no choice, right?  Eighteen, then.  But you’d better be prepared to deal with this come midnight that birthday, got it?"

Bruce had to smile, and the two shared a quiet laugh, calling the training session quits for the moment.  Once they both cooled off, they could figure out a way to continue more safely; there would be a lot of that kind of sorting out to do, but it could be done.  If it made things more peaceable, it was worth it.  Two years was a long time, he knew, and there was every chance that one or both of their feelings would change over that time, even more so that John would find another object of affection.  Even so, Bruce knew the decision was the right one.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a load of bullshit, but there wasn't anything John could do about it right then.  Bruce was in charge, Bruce was the one giving him a roof, a bed and food, let alone his training and supplies, and there were plenty of things John could probably fight, but this didn't seem like one of them.

Maybe it was easy for the older man to wait nearly two years to fool around, but that was a long time to John, nearly forever.  What if they weren't even still interested in two years?  What if waiting made it not as strong?  Really, getting started now and figuring it out as they went would be the smartest plan, regardless of a few years in age difference.  It was probably closer to ten, but John didn't care about that.  If Bruce felt accessible, real, and was as interested as he was, then ten years was still nothing.  It just meant he'd been around longer, that's all.  Their differences in growing up, the fact that he was the Batman, _those_ were more pressing differences to him.  

Whatever.

Bruce wouldn't even kiss him, not wanting to make it harder on himself, and John had grudgingly agreed not to push, not to try to get him to change his mind early.  Except he'd established that connection, he had already spent every night since their discussion with his hand down his pants to deal with the frustration.  Did Bruce even jerk it, ever?  He certainly seemed eager enough to turn down perfectly accessible sex.  Unless he had someone else he wasn't telling John about...

Well, if he did, if he was getting satisfaction somewhere else, then John could do the same by himself.  And _not_ by himself, as well.  He'd just have to play it carefully with the two watchdogs he lived with.  Despite Bruce appearing to give him space, John was under the same roof as the Batman, and he had no delusions that he wasn't also under near constant surveillance.  

During his nightly patrol would be the best time, he determined.  Even if it wasn't complete, those were the times that it seemed Bruce gave him the most leeway, the most freedom.  If he packed a change of clothes, he could stash the suit, slip down to street level and look for someplace to have some fun.  His ‘small allowance’—small only according to someone who grew up a millionaire—would let him pay the door fee for one of the less questionable clubs outside the Narrows.  He'd sneaked into a few of the others in his time, the kind that didn't ask for ID, the kind that didn't care how old anyone was so long as they had money for whatever drink they were buying.  Those were more risky.  No cops bothered investigating that deep in.  

The Batman wouldn't approve of his choice of destination any more than Bruce would approve of his action in general, but as far as John was concerned, it was Bruce's fault he felt the need to go, in the first place. There were a couple of false starts, failed attempts where the logistics just didn't work or Bruce showed up to shadow him, one when he followed one of his marks longer than usual, but within two weeks he'd managed a window of opportunity.  

As far as Bruce and Alfred were concerned, he was spending the next few hours patrolling Old Town.  Instead, he made his way to the underground club he'd staked out days earlier.  Changing out of the suit and leaving it inside a pack on a fire escape that led to nowhere in an abandoned apartment building, he kept his eye mask, as that kind of place seeming only fitting for it.  

The building was well designed, not allowing even the thumping bass of the music from inside escape toward street level until the heavy steel door was opened.  And that didn't open without a password that John had already collected by listening in.  It changed every week, but this time, it was,

"Ravenwood."  

The large man working the door looked John up and down, his eyes lit in a predatory way that had nothing to do with his job.  At least he was only at the door.  Once inside, the pulse of the music was near-deafening, and he could feel its vibration through his feet and his whole body, the thump of his heart a barely perceptible thing by comparison.  

The main floor was past a few twists of a hall, and it was more packed than John had expected.  He wasn't one for the big crowds, so he stayed along the outside, watching the others who didn't join in the mass of bodies.  He'd been just about to contemplate a drink when a cup was held in front of his face, a small waggle shaking its ice and rattling them with a sound he couldn't possibly have heard.  Turning, he found a young man several years his senior on the other end of the offer.  John, however, was smarter than that.

"No thanks," his voice rose above the music, a head shake accompanying it to make sure he was clear.  

The other boy, face and arms painted in neon swirls, shrugged his shoulders.  With a raise of his eyebrows as if to express 'your loss,' he left John alone, presumably to offer the cup to another boy.  While there was a chance it was innocent, that there was nothing extra hiding nefariously in the drink, that chance was low, in John's mind.  

Even if he tried to ignore it, he knew he couldn't let that go.  Avoiding being taken advantage of wasn't so satisfying if it just meant that it happened to someone else, instead. That in mind, he put off finding someone for himself, opting for shadowing that boy from a distance. True to form, the drink found its way into the face of another kid around John's age, skinnier, smaller, more mouse-like.  Hanging back, John waited until he could see uncertainty in the boy's eyes.

"You don't want that," John told him as he walked up on his other side.

The first boy turned a dark look on John from under his brow.  "Fuck off, boy scout, I saw this one first."

"And I'm not trying to pinch your game," John shook his head, then turned to the smaller boy.  "Always buy your own drink, okay?" he advised.  "That way you know it's safe, that nothing's in it."

The older boy snorted and began to retort, but John held up a hand as the mousey one opened his mouth.  "Is there something in it?"

"I don't know," John replied honesty, "but you don't, either, and that's why you should buy your own, okay?"

It seemed to click for the boy, and John slipped a couple bills into his hand to be sure he could follow through.  The older one wasn't pleased, but John wasn't concerned with his feelings.  Leaning to his side, John spoke only for his ears, "I'm watching you now, so if you try to pull that shit on anyone else, you'll be pulling more trouble on your head than you're ready to deal with, understand?"

The look of utter contempt was all John needed to know he'd understood, and with a smile and a wink at the mouse, John walked away.  

Heading for the counter, he flashed his ID and asked for a soda.  The woman behind it had seemed braced for the annoyance of turning down another minor playing at legal, but relaxed and gave him a tight-lipped nod as she gave him his cup. Other places, he would have ordered a beer, but he didn't feel like attracting extra trouble this time.  

"I hear the _so_ da's nice in this... _establishment_ ," a voice with a curious lilt to it sounded from over John's shoulder as he turned back toward the center of the room.   It was immediately followed by the staccato slurping sounds a straw made when there wasn't enough drink left to slurp.  

His own straw in his mouth already, John looked over to find a boy who looked around his age, maybe a year or two older, slighter in build but with broader shoulders.  Brown hair curling limply against his head, down around his ears and the back of his neck, his eyes were dark, outlined by the neon paint rather wildly decorating his face, neck, and bare chest.  There was something to the whorls on his cheeks, the way they connected to the corners of his mouth, a different texture, but the light was too low and unsteady for him to make anything out.  

"You sample the soda in here a lot, then?" John asked once he'd swallowed.  He'd raised his voice to be heard above the music, only to have it cut out before his last shouted word, the briefest of audio reprieves before the next song began, a rarity in that kind of place to begin with, and dumb luck to catch while shouting.  Ducking his head, he felt his ears burn, purposefully not looking around to see how much attention he'd garnered.  

There was a barely-heard chuckle from beside him, however, and a peek to the side showed the lighter brunette smiling in clear amusement.  "I find the _awk_ ward ones most fascinating," his rolling tone came across under the music.  He hadn't even spoken that loudly, but it reached John's ears all the same.  

Sitting up straighter, John's felt his defenses rising.  "I'm not _awkward_ ," he argued, but then admitted, "just have my moments, I guess."  

“ _Life_ is just a bunch of _mo_ ments strung to _geth_ er," the other boy replied with a rising flourish of his hand, like it was flying away, setting his empty cup down at last and turning to better face John.  As he did, those dark eyes roamed over him, surveying, his head tilting slowly.  The effect sent a shiver running down John’s spine, but intrigued him all the same.

"Yeah, I guess it is," John agreed, finding his eyes following the track of the paint.  No matter where on his face he began, the lines led to the boy's mouth.  The effect was so distracting, he was startled to discover the boy had moved closer, right next to him, leaning in.  Eyes snapping up, they were met with a dark pair staring back.  "I, uh," he let out a chagrined laugh.  "Sorry."

"You like it?  I do it my _self_ , you know," the boy explained.  "It's worth a few _looks_."  Gaze roaming over John again, he asked, "What's your _name_ , pretty boy?"

From anyone else, the epithet would probably have felt offensive. Somehow, in this strange boy's mouth, it only felt like a compliment at most, but even then, more like a statement.  "Uhm," a self conscious laugh left him, "it's John.  Do I get yours, now?"

"I sup _pose_ it would be _ev_ en that way," came the response with another slow tilt of his head.  "Jack," he said simply.  


	11. Chapter 11

Jack seemed amused with himself, and John wondered if he'd given him a fake name.  Ultimately, it didn't matter much, since he wasn't exactly looking for a friend or anything.  "Jack, huh?  Seems easy enough to remember."  Reaching into his pocket and shaking a cigarette out of his soft pack, he tucked it between his lips to search for his lighter.  "So you come here a lot, Jack?"

With a click, a small yellow flame danced in front of his face.  Chuckling, he aimed the open end of his cig for the lighter, taking a drag to ignite it.  Jack flipped the steel box closed in a graceful motion, tucking it into a small pocket on his pant leg, drawing a tug at John's mouth.  Now that he looked, Jack's pants looked strange, maybe special-made, with small pockets spiraling up each leg along with checkered designs.  Definitely unique to anything John had ever seen.  

"Thanks," he said after blowing out his smoke.

"No _prob_ lem.  And I come here when I _want_ to, which is only _some_ times."  One arm bent and leaned back on the bar's counter, he was still watching John with his painted eyes.  

"You come to dance in the raves?" John asked, mostly hoping the answer was no.  He could dance, but it wasn't really his thing.  It would only be an investment, at its best.  

Jack slowly shook his head in a measured motion.  "I come to wa _tch_ ," he clarified, leaning a finger toward his eye for emphasis.  

Cheekier than he meant, he asked after another drag, "Oh yeah?  You got a thing for watching?"  The smile he received in return gave him goose bumps over his arms and he rubbed at them absently.  "How about a thing for _doing_?" he asked, this time with all intentional meaning.  

In the dimness, John didn't see Jack's hand snake over to his thigh until its fingers were already sliding towards the inner seam of his jeans. The move startled him slightly, but didn't surprise him.  Once flirting took a turn toward talk of action, the actions themselves generally followed, unless he found the shy ones.  Jack, if anything, didn't seem the shy type.  

"Oh, I have _plen_ ty of inter _est_ in the _do_ ing of thing _s_ ," he hissed the final letter, accompanied by a squeeze to John's inner thigh that had him shifting on his stool.  His body was definitely eager to remind him that it was frustrated as hell and in need of some release.  That had been the point, after all.

Tracing his fingers over the painted designs on Jack's arm, John smirked, knees shifting apart.  "Oh, good," he breathed.  "You got any objections to the bathrooms in the back?"  They weren't the cleanest, most likely, but given the rest of the area, it was still probably a step up from the worst he'd been in.  

Not lifting his hand, Jack slid off his stool, setting one foot on the floor and turning on its heel in a smooth twist to arrive in front of John and facing him.  His second hand joined the first, then, mirroring its motion on John's other leg, and Jack stepped up close between them, his chest inches from John's.  "No _ne_ ," he answered, drawing out the hum at close of his teeth.  

Hooking his fingers lightly around the backs of Jack's elbows, minding the smoldering cherry on his cig, John leaned forward intending to kiss him, but found a finger laid over his lips, instead.  Pressing them tightly closed in response, John raised an eyebrow.

"Not _that_ ," Jack informed him, waggling the finger once he'd released him.

While it certainly wasn’t an unheard of stipulation, it _was_ a little disappointing.  Kissing Bruce had reminded him how much he enjoyed it, but getting off was going to be more satisfying, regardless.  He shrugged, letting Jack know he didn't care, and after stamping out his cigarette, John was led through the pulsing crowd toward a set of swing doors along the back wall.  They'd probably once been more well-marked, but now only sported a faded "M_N'_" and "_OME_'S", respectively, to designate their welcome.  The remnants of the words were enough, however, and they headed into the "M_N'_" room, passing the first couple of stalls and a long bank of urinals in desperate need of a scrub.  

Ducking into the third and final stall without even disturbing the barely-ajar door—a feat John did _not_ manage when his turn came—Jack tugged John in behind him.  Immediately finding himself pushed against the door as it was latched, John ran his hands up Jack's sides, thumbs in front.  Brushing them over his nipples, he enjoyed the snicker the action obtained from Jack.  

" _O_ pen," Jack ordered, waggling a finger over the seam of John's pants.  Watching John follow his instructions, Jack stepped back, unfastening his own pants, with no zipper, John noted.  An eager dick popped up near instantly, and John gave him a small smirk.  

"Someone's ready," he teased.  

" _Some_ one is," came a sing-song reply.  A hand delved beneath John's waistband before he'd finished working his own dick out of his pants, slender, graceful fingers slipping around his shaft and stroking firmly upward as they drew him out into the open.  "Two some _ones_ , it seems."  One side of his mouth drew into his cheek, and in the more steady lighting, even dimmer, John could see the paint crack and crinkle, though the hint of skin beneath was still unclear.  

His breath let out in a hum, distracting him from looking more closely, and he let it go for the moment.  Besides, he had other plans for his own mouth.  Receiving was great, of course, and he wouldn't pass it up, but John just happened to enjoy sucking cock.  Giving Jack a wink, he knelt down in front of him, running his fingers over the heated skin of his dick, sizing him up, figuring he could get at least two thirds of him into his mouth before getting close to gagging.  The reflex was there, but he was working on minimizing it through practice; he had a goal to be able to deep-throat an average-sized cock.  Maybe he'd reach it by the time Bruce finally fooled around with him.  

Jack nearly cooed above him, wiggling his fingers through John's hair.  "You any _good_?"  There was a tease to his tone, but there also seemed a genuine curiosity.  A club bathroom blow job didn't exactly come with a quality guarantee.  

Giving a few firm strokes over him, base to tip, John smirked.  "I've got practice, but you'll have to see for yourself, I guess."  With that, he was done teasing, dipping forward to slide a wet kiss along the underside of his shaft, following the tendon towards the top.  Flicking the tip of his tongue at the crease of skin under the head, he heard what he interpreted as a contented sigh.   _Good_ , he thought, proud of himself for getting sounds so quickly.  

The assessment had to be reevaluated when Jack's hands reached to hook under his arms after not long at all, hauling him up to his feet.  "That's _good_ and all, but, uh, you should str _ip_ ," he said, as if deciding as he was speaking what it was he wanted.  

John hesitated, then.  "I don't have condoms with me," he explained, not going for his pants.  Blow jobs were one thing, but he wasn't letting anyone in his ass without protection, even if he'd wanted that right then, which he wasn’t sure he did.  He was suddenly very aware of the door behind him, as well as the club's exits back out in the main room.  

Jack's head tilted to the side, then he let out a snicker that rolled in its pitch.  "No, no, _no_ ," he said as if John had said something that had made no sense, "I don't want to _fuck_ you, I want to see you _touch_ yourself."  Without waiting for agreement, he made a motion towards John's clothing, an expectant look on his painted face.  

"Oh… Yeah, okay."  It definitely wasn't a request he'd gotten before, and it gave him pause, wondering how much satisfaction _he'd_ be getting out of the deal besides just masturbating, but why not?  Tugging his shirt up and off and shucking his pants and boxers, he looked around for any good hanging spot before giving up and setting them in a pile on the floor.  He was bare, then, in a dirty bathroom stall, save for his socks and shoes.  "So...  Just touch?"

With a click of his tongue, Jack shook his head.  "One hand," there was a beat in between, "on the, uh, on the _wall_."  His direction was emphasized by a waggled finger in the general direction of the stall wall.  

"So, facing it?" John asked, unsure if he should just lean to the side with one hand up.

With a moment's pause, Jack seemed to think it over.  Or maybe imagine it, John wasn't entirely sure.  "Lean a _li_ ttle," he added, "so your, uh, your back is kinda... ben _t_."  From any other person he'd met, the starts and stops in Jack's speech would have conveyed nervousness, uncertainty, maybe, but not then.  It came across like he was searching for the perfect words, or even just had trouble getting the right ones to obey him.

John obeyed, however, shifting his feet apart for better balance, hearing a hummed 'yes' from over his shoulder as he did.  Placing his hand just above head-height on the wall, he leaned forward, aware suddenly how his hips were shifted, how his ass became more in-view, and he understood.  He wasn't just being _watched_ , he was meant to put on a _show_.  Looking back, he was greeted by those dark-greased eyes sharply focused on him, their owner having hopped up to sit on the back of the toilet, for a better viewing angle, probably.  There was a predator's glint to them, but not the same kind that he'd seen in the face of the door's bouncer, or the cops who harassed kids.  John wasn't being overpowered or taken advantage of, but it felt like those eyes were devouring him all the same.  Maybe it shouldn't have, but the realization excited him.

Feeling only slightly self-conscious—less so since Jack was at least shirtless with his cock out, making him partially exposed, as well—John slid his hand down his own stomach, turning his wrist to slip his fingers over his shaft, curling them.  He hadn't been at full attention, but between the pressure of his hand and the fact that Jack was watching him closely, making small noises in appreciation, he was fully hard in just a few moments.  

"Bend s' _mo_ re," Jack's voice spoke more quickly, and John watched as he, too, danced fingers over his own cock.  Leaning further, he began to watch Jack, only to be grunted at, as if disciplined.  "It's not your _turn_ ," he admonished, circling a finger in the air.  "So _turn_ and focu _s_."  His other hand made no further motion until John followed his order, turning back to look at the wall, though he could see the shifting of Jack's arm in his peripheral vision.  

He didn't speak to John again, though he certainly wasn't silent.  He still made the noises whenever it seemed John moved how he liked, and it almost sounded several times like he was talking to himself quietly, too quietly for John to hear.  He blocked it out, for the moment, focusing on his hand's motions, on the sound of Jack's quickened breathing.  Having to spit on his hand a couple of times to ease the friction drew louder grunts from Jack, and John soon found his hips shifting to meet his hand, as much as they could in his position.  

Mouth open, John's eyes lidded, breath coming in voiceless pants.  Jack said something, something quiet, but the rushing of blood through John's ears was too loud, he was too close, and with a shudder he felt his cock pulse into his hand.  Tension rolled through his belly, legs becoming shaky, and he leaned more of his weight against the stall's wall to stay steady.  "Is it my turn, now?" he asked, voice thin.

It was a long-suffering sound, then.  "I sup _pose_ , if that's what you wan _t_."  Jack was still watching him closely when John turned, not a twitch or a quiver to his eyelids even when his hand increased its rhythm, roughly pulling over his skin.  His gaze was an intense thing, and even though he was watching, now, no longer touching as he'd let his cock go, John felt almost as if he was still the one receiving sensations.  When Jack came, it was John who gasped, feeling his shaft twitch, knowing instantly that there would be a new drip on the floor if he looked for it.  Paint-swirled lips cracked to the sides, off-white teeth set on edge in a grin as self-satisfied as it was menacing.  

John wanted nothing more, in the moment, than to steal the kiss he'd been denied.

"You're _com_ ing here to _morr_ ow, too," Jack spoke into the haze of John's thoughts.  Blinking himself back to reality, out of his distraction, he realized the other boy had already tucked his dick back into his pants, wiped his hand, and hopped up to his feet, looking ready to leave.  

Quickly following suit, flushing the messed tissue down the toilet and tugging on his clothes, John hesitated.  "I'm not sure I can make it tomorrow," he replied honestly.  Getting there that night, dodging Bruce and Alfred effectively, had been difficult enough, had required fore-planning.  Another, so quickly...

"No," Jack drew out, stepping so close John backed up a step, finding himself against the inside of the stall door, again, with nowhere left to back up _to_.  "You're _com_ ing here," he repeated, "to _morr_ ow."  Before John could argue again, that it just wasn't a sure thing, warm lips covered his, pressing tightly, and he knew, then, what the paint's design was for.  There were deep, complex scars to the sides of Jack's mouth; he could feel how they pressed into his own cheeks.  A wide but winding tongue snaked past his lips before Jack drew back, his hands flat against the door on either side of John's shoulders, staying close.  "Right?"

Surprise scars or no surprise scars, the kiss had been just what he'd wanted when he'd started the night, and he stole another, licking at the middle of Jack's lips, not overstepping whatever boundaries he might have for touching the scars.  “Okay,” he nodded.  "I'll try."


	12. Chapter 12

Ignoring the plea coming from the bloodied face beneath him, the Bat sent a swift kick to its ear, jarring his consciousness from him.  When the man awoke, he would have a headache and a story to tell, and the Bat had the information he needed.  Falcone had been making motions beneath the general flow of shit that wound its way through the city.  New, unmarked shipments had been coming into the docks under cover of darkness, no doubt to avoid scrutiny from security, the port authority, and Gotham police—the ones _not_ on the take—but the night was _his_ realm.  

There were no records trails, no IDs on the tankers or their containers, but every mystery had its explanation.  His talk with the body at his feet had confirmed his assumption that the shipments were being run for Falcone's outfit specifically, not even passing through like much of his business.  Unfortunately for the man on the ground, motionless though breathing as the Bat walked away, he hadn't known what the cargo was.  Further interviews would be needed elsewhere, but not that night.  

That night, he had planned to give John a night off from their schedule. Of course, John didn't know that, yet, but he had wanted to surprise him.  It was only an hour past sundown, and it would be some time, yet, before John would have begun patrols or lessons.  He wasn't sure, yet, what they'd do, but a night in managed to sound... nice.

Driving the tumbler back down the winding road that led through the dark edge of forest around his property, he wondered what John would pick, if he gave him a choice.  It felt oddly like a date, in a way, but he pushed that thought out of his mind.  No temptations.  

By the time the water from the falls had sluiced off the cage and he opened the top, John was already calling out his name from the edge of the main rock platform.  "Here," Bruce replied as soon as he'd peeled the cowl from his head.  No doubt he was eager to tail his targets.

"I'm going out," the boy announced, already dressed in his suit.  "I'll be back later."

"No," Bruce told him with a pat to his shoulder.  Making his way to the sink to wash the grease from his eyes, he was well aware of John's indignation even before the boy made a sound and followed.  "You're taking a night off," he explained, scrubbing carefully.  The first few times he'd worn the paint, he'd scrubbed so hard to clear it he'd had bright red skin all around his eyes for the entire next day.  A little hard to explain to the average person who knew him as only an idle-life billionaire, without assumptions of drug use.  

From his tone, Bruce could tell John was grinding his jaw, carefully controlling himself, so far.  "And if I don't _want_ a night off?"  A glance backward showed his hand clenching and releasing.  

Turning at last, Bruce wiped the last of the water from his face with a towel, hanging that around his neck. He was well aware of how ridiculous they both looked, no mask and no cowl, but both in their armor.  "Either way, you're staying off the streets," he replied calmly.  "Days off are very important, John, whether you want them or not, and whether you enjoy them or not.  They help you stay sane."

"I don't need _that_ , I'm already here in a giant cave with a guy dressed up like a big human-bat hybrid...  Sanity seems a little overrated around here, doesn't it?"  Though the tone and the quirk of his mouth were teasing, his eyes remained hard, sharply trained on Bruce.  Cutting Bruce off before he could speak out on the sarcasm, John continued, "But really, I need to go out...  I've planned out the route and everything."  There was a harder glint to the boy's eyes, close to desperation.  

"Exactly what are you planning tonight?" Bruce questioned, stopping John’s progress toward the catwalk over the water.  "What is specific to tonight that's so important it has you pushing, nervous?"

The boy's expression darkened, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Wanting to keep my schedule doesn't mean I'm nervous," he argued, but Bruce could see the small twitches around his eyes, cracks in the flesh-and-blood mask.  

"And this is your schedule, too," Bruce spoke with enough finality to his tone to brook no arguments.  Holding out a hand toward the area Bruce had sectioned off for keeping spare clothing while they were out, he waited for John to go ahead of him before making his own way, carefully removing each portion of armor and making sure John did the same, though reluctant.  "You might not thank me for it, after,” he spoke as he tugged a t-shirt over his head, “but it's happening."

In addition to not expressing his gratitude, John said nothing at all as they made their way to the elevator and rose up into the house.  Not wanting to leave him to his own devices for too long, knowing a teenager's penchant for sneaking out to get where they wanted—not that he could claim to be much different, in temperament—he led them to a rec room, suggesting a movie night.  

"I haven't exactly seen a lot of movies more than once," John replied when Bruce asked if he had a favorite, or any suggestions.  "They had a TV in the common room, but there were usually too many people in there, and I haven’t gotten to theaters much."  It wasn’t quite a pout in his tone, but it was still more of the same resistance.

Nodding, understanding the possibility even if it was pure deflection, Bruce turned back to the cabinet. There was a sizable collection of tapes, many of them kept around by his parents, only a few having been obtained specifically for Bruce, since he hadn't tended to sit in front of the screen alone.  Looking over the titles, running his fingers over the boxes, he found himself at a loss, as well.  

"Might I offer a suggestion, Master Bruce?" sounded from the doorway where Alfred stood.  Bruce agreed, hand in the air in a gesture of defeat.  The older man crossed the floor, approaching the shelf deliberately.  "If you've no particular preference, either of you, then perhaps you would enjoy an older feature."  Plucking a worn cardboard case from the collection, Alfred handed it to Bruce.  "A timeless classic, to be sure."

Turning it over, Bruce chuckled.  "Looks like we're watching 'Godzilla,' John," he said, flashing him the cover before stepping back to load the tape.  No response came, but even so he got it playing, taking a seat on a couch that faced the television, John already seated in a single chair, undoubtedly for the distance it gained him.  The boy’s legs were drawn up crisscrossed, making him an island in the space around him.

The movie itself was ridiculous, but that was half the point, something to divert attention.  Bruce explained, unasked, about the voice dubbing, what little he knew beyond the obvious, and though there came no replies, John listened quietly.  He perked up a little when Alfred returned with a pair of sodas and popcorn for them both, polishing off more than Bruce, for whom the wear and tear of the day was rapidly catching up.  

Somewhere in the middle of a scene where the giant lizard rose from the sea, again, Bruce drifted off to sleep, chin resting against his chest.  It was a peaceful, dreamless sleep, one he was loath to leave, but he eventually blinked open his eyes, finding a blanket draped over him, his head having been tilted back to lean on the couch cushion.  Though he assumed Alfred, immediately, having woken after such care many times over the years, he was surprised to look over and find John still with him.  The movie was over, television off, and it seemed the boy has fallen asleep, as well, though uncovered and with one of Bruce's books lying open in his lap.  

Already aching from an active day and a terrible napping posture, blood pooling painfully in his lower legs, there was no way he could stay there for the night.  Standing and starting to transfer the blanket to John's sleeping form, he thought better of it.  Curled up in the chair, while comfortable for an hour or so, would lead anyone to cramped muscles.  That in mind, he positioned a bookmark on the open page, set the book aside for later, and gently lifted John into his arms.  

Balance steadied after a moment, he took great care on the stairs, but the boy's frame was slender enough, muscle spread out over his body evenly, that he was little trouble.  The rest of the house was dark, Alfred undoubtedly retired for the night, but he didn't need to see to find his way through the familiar halls.  Using his elbow to ease open John's door, grateful it had been left unlatched, he stepped in and carefully laid the boy out on his bed, drawing the covers back and then tucking him beneath them.  

"Sleep well, John," he whispered over him, "sweet dreams."

___________________________________

"Mr. Wayne," buzzed through the intercom on the desk behind him, "your twelve o'clock has arrived.  Should I send him in?"

Taking one last sweeping view of the bustling city movements far below him, Bruce turned from the window.  "That will be fine, thank you, Jessica," he aimed at the speaker, its button depressed just long enough to not cut off his words.  Most days, the intercom would have startled him out of a fitful nap with his head on the desk, but today he felt better rested, calmer.  

Direction sent, he turned back to the window, hands clasped behind his back.  A familiar click and creak accompanied the opening of the office's door, and he heard Jessica's soft instruction for his guest to go right on in.  Once the room was sealed again, Bruce put on his business smile, shifting to offer a hand outstretched.  "Mr. Algren, I presume?"

Not a man of large stature, Algren stepped forward to reach across the desk, his back leaning as he shook Bruce's hand.  "I am," he confirmed congenially enough.  "And I don’t have to assume—good to meet you, Mr. Wayne."  They hadn't spoken yet, the meeting having been set up through their respective communication teams, but Bruce could hear, now, the evidence supporting the bio he'd read claiming the man had been born and raised in Virginia.  

Nodding, he released after a firm shake in greeting, gesturing for the other man to take a seat in one of the chairs that faced the desk.  "I understand you took a train up, rather than a flight," he commented, having also learned that Algren didn't favor starting on business without some effort put into a personal conversation.  For his part, Bruce couldn't care less if the man had ridden a llama for two hundred miles, but business was business.  

"I did," Algren replied with shoulders squared, chin rising as he smiled across the desk.  "Thirty-five thousand feet isn't a great way to see the beautiful countryside along the way, now is it?"

"Fair point," Bruce nodded, then brandished a good-natured kind of smile.  "Are there any sights you plan on enjoying while you're here, other than the inside of our offices?"

Setting his hands, folded together, on the edge of the desk, Algren leaned forward, a faked conspiratorial hush to his tone.  "I was hoping you'd have some manner of recommendations for me, actually."

"That can be arranged, of course," he offered, setting his own hand atop the folder that contained copies of their correspondence and a number of spreadsheets he'd requested.  "Jessica, who you met outside, can set you up with a proper tour, if that's something you'd like."

"I'd rather know your own recommendations, if you don't mind," Algren clarified, a friendly smile on his face; it was as fake as Bruce’s own.  "I find it says a lot about a person."  Sharp blue eyes were watching him closely, evaluating each reaction he offered, every response and its implications.  Bruce easily recognized the scrutiny, having already been more casually returning it.  

Bruce gave a nod of assent.  "If that's what you want, then we'll set it up.  How's tomorrow?"  Postponing the request would give him time to tail the man that evening, now that he was in town.  It was entirely possible that he'd come all the way to Gotham just to meet with Bruce, in fact many did, but it was just as likely he had other plans while he was north.  The agreement set, they were finally able to get down to business.  

Algren had done extensive homework on Wayne Enterprises' contracts with the military and the United States government.  Though the particulars were not public knowledge, the records sealed and most of the research and development having been off the books to begin with, the man had managed a rather impressive sampling report which he spat back up for Bruce.  He'd been aware the man had his own industrial complex, that he was interested in funneling a significant amount of money through Bruce's company in exchange for supplies.  However, it wasn't until this meeting that he'd revealed just what those supplies were.  

With access to raw materials, Algren was in need of refined parts and labor, which he had learned Wayne Enterprises had handled in the past. "I understand there's a precedent for diplomacy and confidentiality," he drew out, coffee mug tipped to his lips.  "You know how it is, Mr. Wayne; I'm not breaking any laws, but the general public can get so squiffy over anything that gets transferred from public service to military advancement.”

While Algren’s company handled a variety of accounts and had its fingers in many different proverbial pots, the path of current interest lay in neuro-technological developments.  According to Algren, their investors were seeking to bridge neuro-net inhibitors that had first been brought into development for medical applications, in order to research better treatment options for movement-based neurological disorders, with cutting edge intelligence and military software to help soldiers reduce their rates of indecision and anxiety on the battle field, and during covert operations.  If it tested well as a wearable tech, the theory was that it could shorten campaigns by weeks or months, and take a lot of psychological damage out of the picture for military operatives.

“I do know how the general public can be,” Bruce began, purposefully leaving his tone light to keep Algren strung along, “but from what I’m hearing, this all sounds a lot like making people into robots, or machines.  The human version of drone warfare, one might infer.”

Algren set down his mug, sitting straighter in his chair.  “Oh no, no,” he chuckled, shaking his head just to the one side, “they’re very much alive.”

Bruce kept his head still.  “Zombies, then.”  He smiled, but he wasn’t amused.

“Mr. Wayne… Bruce?”  When Bruce nodded permission, he continued, “I would ask that you take some time with my initial tests, our progress, and try to keep an open mind.  I’ll be in town for a few days.  Remember,” he held up a hand, though Bruce hadn’t made any move to speak, “your company’s involvement would only be needed to assemble the delivery devices, the physical, electronic tech.  Surely there are no philosophical debates to be had over a few ones and zeros, some red and blue wires, are there?”

With a quiet hum, Bruce shuffled slowly again through the file folders he’d opened on his desk.  “It’s never so much the object, itself, is it, Mr. Algren… Matthew,” he returned familiarity for more of the same, “but how it is used.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

Algren lightly smacked the edge of Bruce’s desk with his fingertips, a grin on his face.  “Why, that’s precisely why I believe we can work together on this, Bruce.  But I have to let you know, while I’ve come to you first, what with your company here being such a big player in the game, I _do_ have other interested parties who could possibly make up the difference, should you decline.  Sometimes, innovations must move quickly.”

Of course, what negotiation would be complete without the unverifiable competitors?  

“That’s true,” he allowed, “but it’s also true my father didn’t build this company on hasty decisions.”  A smile helped soften the possible insult, and Bruce watched as it was reflected in Algren’s face, along with a nod and an understanding twinkle to his eye.

“Naturally.”  Shifting towards the edge of the chair, Algren clasped his hands together.  “How about this, Bruce… you don’t discount the proposal immediately, and I say any more until we take a look at your illustrious city tomorrow.”  His hand stretched out over the front of the desk to seal the deal.

Bruce stood, taking it, shaking it as Algren stood as well.  “Fair enough.  Tomorrow, then.”  Gesturing for the door, he walked around the desk to lead the man out.  “Please still talk to Jessica about scheduling… I’m afraid I’m terrible at keeping appointments straight.”

Algren just chuckled, and made his way out to the desk in the outer room.  The next day would undoubtedly be carried out just for show—Bruce had mostly made up his mind before even meeting with the man, and tailing his activity that evening would likely only confirm his choice.

___________________________________

It would be perfectly possible to hide a suit and materials somewhere in the city, perhaps even in the company's building, but the process of going home to the house, descending into the cave as Bruce Wayne and emerging into the dark as the Bat, made the transformation more complete.  By the time he rode the tumbler back towards the city, stashed it, and made his way to the rooftops, all traces of Bruce Wayne, the man, were dissolved into the wind.  

Algren was easy to track as it was, but when Bruce had clasped his hand, he'd left a traceable residue on his skin. It would wash off within twelve to fifteen hours, but the Bat would have what he needed by then.  Checking the transponder on his wrist, the Bat leaped to the next roof, and one more, peering over the edge to see Algren getting into a cab several blocks from his hotel.  Following above, the Bat was only a few blocks behind when the signal stilled.  With a jump from a taller building's edge, he sent the electrical current through his cape, straightening it and gliding over the last few buildings until he landed across the street from a familiar spot.

Falcone's bar.

Ducking down silently, the Bat began assembling his tools as Algren passed the security checks at the entrance, stepping inside, and therefore out of sight.  There were a few windows aside from the one next to the door, but Falcone knew better than to pick a space where anyone foolish enough to aim a muzzle at him could pick him or his favorites off.  The crime boss was brazen, considering himself untouchable, but he wasn't stupid.  

Within seconds, a set of heat-sensing goggles were slid into place on his head, allowing him to track Algren's movement even past the brick and mortar.  A small long-range microphone with a palm-sized receiving dish was aimed at the outer wall, and a few minor adjustments tuned for distance and accuracy allowed Algren's voice to come through, along with Falcone's in greeting.  The two were familiar, from the sound of it.  

A tapping distracted him for a moment, accompanied by a soft rolling, cooing sound.  Anchoring the microphone, he slowly, carefully turned his torso so that he could peer back, goggles raised.  It seemed a small group of pigeons had found his presence on the rooftop fascinating.  One in particular hopped onto his cowl, pecking curiously at the ears.  With a wave of his hand, he dislodged the bravest, but the rest remained.  His loss of focus had shifted the receiver, and a low growl eased from him at their hindrance.  Rather than move much more, however, he simply reached towards his waist, sending the current back through the cape, straightening it sharply and scaring the birds enough that they scattered into the air with a sharp flapping and fluttering of feathers and wings.  

A small, satisfied smirk tugging his mouth, the Bat returned to his task, but found a voice far more familiar suddenly lighting his ears.  The angle of the mic had shifted from being aimed at the bar, instead facing the alley beside it where the Bat could see a pair of shadows shifting in the darkness.  Lowering the lenses once more, switching their setting from heat signatures to light amplification, he could make out the height and build of the two, though not their faces.  With the voice, however, he was convinced.  

The Bat’s first instinct was to swing down and gather the boy, but he performed his own patrols, after all, and so he was given the benefit of the doubt.  There was still a mission in mind.  Tilting the microphone back to the bar but keeping his eyes trained on the alley, the Bat was able to listen in on Algren and Falcone while watching out for John.  If anything went south, he would be able to stop it before he was hurt.  


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce was only on the property long enough for the sun to go down.  Though John had never been inside of an office building and didn't really know what went on for a company like Bruce's, he still didn't quite know how the man spent so many hours in a building full of people that, logically, were doing all of his work /for him.  If he had to hazard a guess, it had much less to do with overseeing the work than it did with making an appearance of doing so, of keeping a face just for the public.  Even more, it kept Bruce from sitting in an empty too-big house all day long.  Money and resources aside, John figured anyone could go a little crazy shut up in an echoey space all the time.  

He certainly left it, himself, whenever he had the chance.  It was beautiful, that was sure, and comfortable to live in, but it felt like living in a shell.  The orphanage had felt more alive than Bruce's house, even for all its trouble.  Finally out of the city, far from the Narrows and all of Gotham's dirt, and all John wanted each day was to go back.  

Maybe _he_ was the insane one, after all.  But if he was, then so was Bruce, and though there was little comfort in that, on the one hand, at least he had company.  Even if he was actively trying to ditch that company for other company, at the moment.  He couldn't even be sure that Jack would be at the club, once John hadn't shown up the previous night, or that he'd still be interested after being stood up, but he had to try.  

Alfred was easy.  John packed like normal, a practiced liar already with years of experience, he let the older man think he was going out on his own patrol--and maybe he would, a little, first.  Bruce had already left by the time John made his way to the cave, Alfred having insisted that, junior vigilante or not, he eat a bit of supper—in his words—before going out for the evening.  When he didn't go out with Bruce, there had been the issue of transportation.  Being dropped off by Alfred was Bruce's first suggestion, and though the guy was nice and all, it made him feel really silly.  After a bit of reluctance on their part, John had been allowed to learn to use a motorcycle--even though Alfred seemed to have never-ending facial twitches at the sight of him mounting the seat at night.  

"Your helmet, Master Blake," the man reminded him.  With a small roll of his eyes, John made a show of putting it on and buckling it, sending himself off with a wave back at Alfred as he rode down the retractable ramp that extended out from the cavern.  

In all fairness, he did do a bit of patrolling first, watching his marks, confirming their routines.  As soon as he felt it was late enough, however, he stashed the bike and helmet, along with his bag, and made his way down to the club, the stamp still showing enough on his hand to get in without redoing it.  There was every chance that Jack wouldn't be there, and he prepared for it as he walked in.  Just in case, so he'd have fun either way, he paid a few bucks to get the black light paint swirled on his arms, face and chest once he made the decision to toss his shirt.  

Glowing in the purple streams of light flickering around the space, John made his way to the end of the counter he'd been at the night he'd met Jack.  Two sodas and about five song tracks later, he was starting to feel disappointed.  Despite keeping a look out around the room, and being in the same spot, there was no sign of him.  With too much soda in him, he made for the bathrooms at the back, not bothering to duck into a stall but stepping up to a urinal.  The room seemed empty, though its single flickering fluorescent bulb did little to help out, and he let out a quiet sigh.  

The sigh shifted sharply into a gasp as a hand reached around his waist to take hold of his dick before he could tuck it back into his pants.  "Hey!" he cried out, ready to turn and fight whoever it was until a chin lay on his shoulder and a lilting, uneven laugh lit his ear.  He was still pissed, but he froze, asking hopefully, "...Jack?"

"Per _haps_ ," came the familiar, sibilant voice. "Unless you'd _ra_ ther it be someone el _se_ grabbing your fun _bits_."  The last words were punctuated by a squeeze to his dick, a light tug and twist to its length drawing a gasp from John before he was released.  "And _you_ ," Jack began again, turning John by his shoulders so his back was to the wall between the urinals, " _you_ were _n't_ here last night."

Very aware of how exposed he was despite Jack's eyes being trained on his, John reached to tuck himself back into his pants, but Jack batted his hand away, pressing up against his body, face centimeters from John's.  "Yeah, I know I wasn't, but that wasn't my fault," he explained, eyes flicking toward the door.  

"Are you un _com_ fortable?"

"Uh, yeah...  My dick's hanging out."

Giving him breathing room, Jack gestured at his groin, and John hastily reached down.  "Slowly," he ordered, and John felt his neck start to warm as he slowly and carefully maneuvered himself and covered back up.  Silent for a moment, seeming to observe John's nerves, Jack at last tilted his head to the side, a near reptilian look to his face as he regarded John.  "Would you be more _com_ fortable out _side_?"

Swallowing, considering their location for a moment, he nodded.  "Yeah.  Outside."  A lack of privacy might keep him from fooling around, but the air around Jack was different than the last time, and something inside John pushed for him to go somewhere with a better possible escape route.  

Heading topside with Jack on his heels, John slowed once in the alley, but Jack tugged his elbow, jerking his head to indicate John should follow as he kept walking.  They moved a couple of blocks away, and only when they stopped did John realize exactly where they'd gotten to.  Falcone's bar was only just down the street.  Part of him wanted to send Jack off so he could watch the bar, but Bruce had already told him his patrols needed to steer clear of the place; too many guns inside.  Casting a glance in its direction but keeping the recognition from his face, he turned to Jack.  "Here?"

Stepping closer until John's back was to the alley wall, nearly familiar by then, Jack leaned close, inhaling slowly and deeply with his nose near John's neck.  "Where was the _par_ ty _last_ night?" he asked, voice low.  

Fighting back a shiver at basically being sniffed at, John shifted between Jack and the wall.  "Look, that wasn't my fault," he defended.  "My, uh," well what did he _call_ Bruce, anyway?  "The guy in charge of me right now, he uh, he made it a night in."  Hearing himself explain it made him sound like a little kid, but he couldn't exactly say the truth, that the guy who's Batman made him take a night off from running around the city like a junior vigilante.  Of course, he really _wanted_ to say just that, but he was smarter than that.  

"So your _sugar_ daddy said it was no go for the _club_ , hmm?"

John shook his head.  "He's not... Well, he doesn't know about the club, he just didn't want me going out," he clarified, unable to fully argue that Bruce could basically fall under that title.  "I'm here, now, though..."  With that reminder, he tilted his head, testing Jack's reaction to him leaning in toward his mouth.  

"Aht," Jack stopped him with a finger laid over John's lips.  "Those aren't _free_ ," he informed him in a sing-song tone.  "What're you going to give _me_ for those?"  The question was asked so close to John's mouth that he could feel the puffs of air coming from Jack's.  

Swallowing back the temptation to just kiss him anyway, John flicked his eyes up and down the alley.  "Uh, I don't think this is the best spot to jerk off for you, you know?"  

"Hmm?  'S empty," Jack offered, continuing to speak mere millimeters from John's skin even as he tilted his head around towards John's ear, his neck.  " _Dar_ k, too..."

This time, a shiver did find its way over his frame.  "Yeah, but, uh...  It's outside.  A little exposed for that."  Licking over his lips, he reached to brush his fingers down Jack's chest.  "I could do something for _you_ , instead..."  It wasn't as if he didn't have a little practice.

Rather than agree, Jack batted away John's hand, his eyes glinting in the dingy yellow glow from the street light at the mouth of the alley.  "That _is_ doing something for _me_ ," he argued, drawing out the last sound almost plaintively.  "An' it's… what I _want_."  There was a pause, in the middle, as if he meant to add a dramatic flair.

Fighting the urge to shrink down against the brick, unwilling to show that kind of weakness when he knew it would be taken advantage of, John let out a slow breath.  "We can't always get exactly what we want, you know..."

If he'd thought the face in front of him had looked reptilian for a moment earlier, it looked predatory now.  " _I_ do," Jack's voice came out in a quiet hiss.  His mouth reopened to continue, probably with a direction for John, but whatever was coming was stopped short as he was yanked backwards by the scruff of his neck, placed on his feet several steps away from John.  Looking up, shocked, John finally did shrink down, if only a couple of inches.

"I—" he didn't even get to finish a single syllable before a black cowl was in his face, a growled voice for the first time angrily directed at him.

"What are you doing?" the Bat demanded, and the realization that he was still half naked with neon swirls on his skin suddenly hit him.  

"I was just... Getting out for a bit, that's all," he tried.  It had to be worth a shot, at least.  Maybe.  

The flash of hazel eyes shadowed with greasepaint silenced any of those maybes.  By the time they turned to aim at Jack, however, John’s following suit, the alley had emptied save for the two of them.  

\-----

"What the hell were you thinking?"  Bruce's voice boomed through the cavern, winning out even over the roar of the falls.  "Do you even realize how many people get kidnapped, assaulted or killed because of places like that?"

John hadn't even managed to tug his helmet off before Bruce had leapt from the tumbler, yanked off his cowl and proceeded to lecture him.  Setting the helmet aside, John stood, lips pursed firmly.  " _You_ know it's hard to take you seriously when you've got the raccoon face going on, right?" 

The finger John had used to swirl in the air, indicating Bruce's eye paint, was swatted away, the face in front of him not amused.  "What were you thinking?" Bruce repeated, and though John could see the worry in the man's eyes, he was too frustrated with his night to process that part.  "Was it even thinking?  Or was it just your dick in charge of you?"

He tried, he did, but John just couldn't swallow back the red.  Before he knew it had moved, his fist was flying for Bruce's jaw.  Trajectory solid, he might have made it if the man hadn't had better reflexes, deflecting the blow and grabbing John's shoulders.  Lifting him off his feet, Bruce pressed his back against the cold, damp rock of the cavern wall, his face close.  "I wouldn't suggest you try that again," the calm, steady voice warned him.  It was too calm, too steady, and though it couldn't cool him off, it forced him to work at controlling himself. 

"I'm sorry," he grated out through a clenched jaw. 

"No, you're not."

"You're right," he scoffed, "I'm not.  Is that what you wanna hear?  Do you wanna hear that I went there to get laid?  That you've got me all fucking frustrated and you don't seem to care that you're not doing anything about it but trying to make me wait two damn _years_ for you?"

Subtle shifts in the muscles of Bruce's face were mostly hidden by the paint, but John could still see them.  "It's been a week, John.  A week, and you're out trying to have sex with a stranger.  That's not a good way to get my attention."

Staring a moment, John rolled his eyes.  "God, you really think I've never picked someone up before?  That this was to get your _attention_?" 

"Well, was it?"

" _No_ ," John spoke clearly and adamantly.  "But it _is_ your fault."  Even feeling fire inside his veins, John knew very well he'd gone too far.  He just didn't care.  Not even as he was released with an unceremonious dump to the floor.  Not even as he saw hurt and anger flash in Bruce's eyes, and not even as the older man left him without another word, passing Alfred—who'd come down to greet them—silently and disappearing into the darkness of the cavern. 

"Fuck him," John spat out to no one but maybe the bats flitting around on the cave's ceiling.  Alfred remained on the cave side of the elevator, but he gave John space, and John wouldn't curse at the man like that.  At least, not usually.  This time, he didn't even acknowledge his presence despite his eyes flicking over in the man's direction.  His stomach burned, his head feeling in a vise grip, and despite the high-vaulted rock ceiling, the cave was suddenly much too small for him to stay a moment longer. 

Alfred said nothing as John grabbed the jacket he kept on a hook, stalking back to his bike.  Only when he was about to kick the starter did the man walk over with John's helmet, having been tossed aside in his frustration, in his hands.  "Please, Master Blake," he quietly implored, his voice smooth and lacking the bite of Bruce's. 

It was enough, and John took it, throttling up and shooting out of the cave the second he had its strap buckled. 

The bike, he knew, had a tracking device installed, nothing he could remove easily.  Rather than try and waste time, he ditched the bike two blocks earlier than usual, drawing his hood over his head and stalking down the sidewalk.  The streets were emptier than earlier, most of the city shut into their apartments for the end of their day, and the rest not quite out for the start of their night yet. 

Sirens echoed through the alleys, and he could hear catcalls aimed at the last few women leaving work for the night before they ducked into taxis or hurried down the street.  He'd never understood the concept, but then, he'd always found himself looking more at boys than girls, so maybe that was why.  For some reason, no one shouted at guys on the street like they did girls. 

Well, with few exceptions.  One of which sang through the air to his right, originating in the shadows.  "Hey boy," it called, rough around the edges and decidedly drunken.  "C'mere and help me out a minute?"  The accompanying whistle clinched it. 

Despite not pausing, not turning his glance towards the shadows, hood drawn more tightly, John heard footfalls behind him, continuing even as he crossed the next side street.  Great, he thought, one more hassle for the night.  "Not interested," he sang out over his shoulder, but all it earned him was a shove into the next alley.  "Listen, fucker," he started, catching himself from stumbling on a stray length of pipe, but before he could finish, a heavy hand grasped his shoulder. 

Electrified from head to toe, John tensed, ready to lunge at the man.  However, before he could even finish turning to face him, the grip went slack.  A sick sort of hollow groan rattled wetly from the man's throat, and John glanced back just in time to see his bulbous body slump to the concrete.  Almost instantly, a dark pool spread out from his head, catching stray reflections from the streetlights. 

Stumbling away from the slumped form, John's brow furrowed, hands clenched.  On an afterthought, he turned sharply.  Expecting someone even more dangerous, he found Jack, wiping a blade clean on a handkerchief.  "You... you killed him," John stammered. 

"Ye _ah_ ," Jack affirmed, flicking his tongue out over his scarred lips.  "He was _go_ ing to hurt my _toy_ ," came the explanation. 

"Your—" but Jack was already continuing.

"I don't like when people pla _y_ with my thing _s_.  So that _bat_ guy..."  Looking up, Jack met John's eyes with hooded brows, tucking the knife into a sheath clipped to his pants.  " _He's_ your sugar daddy."  It wasn't a question.

"I—"  Swallowing thickly, John looked back down at the body still bleeding as it cooled.  "Uhm, y-yeah, he... Yeah."

The chuckle that met John's ears was low, but ended on a near-shrill note.  "That's _won_ derful," he exclaimed excitedly. 

So much at a loss, John merely tripped his way along as Jack tugged him out of the alley, lacing an arm through his and walking slowly.  "Sh—... Shouldn't we be getting out of here?" he asked in a harsh whisper.  Only one thing at a time was processing through his head, and Jack's excitement over Bruce would have to wait.

"We _are_ ," Jack drew out.  "Now, if you found a dead _bo_ dy, and you saw two idiots running _away_ , who would you think was the _cul_ prit?"  It made sense, in a way, and John only forced himself to nod as he was led down the concrete sidewalk, the night seeming darker and emptier than it had when he'd ditched the bike. 

Block after block they left behind, pace steady.  Even with his jacket, John felt a chill running over his skin.  Jack, he took note for the first time, had changed since meeting up with the Batman.  The paint on his face had been washed off, and he wore a strange-fitting cloth jacket that seemed to be made up of pieces of other jackets, as if it were some kind of quilt.  The style, if it had one, matched the pants he'd seen before.  Not even his shirt seemed regular, an odd material sitting beneath a wildly patterned vest. 

Between the faded yellow of poorly-maintained streetlights and the way matted curls hung about his forehead, Jack's face remained mostly in shadow.  Only his eyes seemed to catch each glint and glimmer of light they passed under, and his teeth when he spoke words that didn't register in John's ears.  John felt as if he might have been in a dream, rather than reality.  Not even the strong, wiry arm snaked through the crook of his elbow could ground him as he stumbled and floated along the concrete. 

Then he was stopped, the grip on his arm tightening and tugging to make him turn in a new direction.  In front of them stood an old apartment building.  Jabbing his fingernails into his palms, John forced himself to focus.  They had traveled longer away from the club's area than he'd realized; the crooked roofs and boarded windows indicated that Jack had led them firmly into Crime Alley. 


	14. Chapter 14

Whether from the roadside or a museum, worth thousands of dollars or only the dirt and earth with which it was made, a clay pot shattered just the same, with small variances.  In a marble-floored hall with vaulted ceilings, devoid of people, the sound of each fracture and shift of ceramic shards echoed and carried through the adjoining rooms.  One less decoration adorned the rich culture that was Wayne Manor.  

Anger was a funny traveler for Bruce in that it rarely ran in straight lines.  Parts of him were frustrated with John for his choices, ones he knew could have been made so much better, but other parts were frustrated with himself for letting the situation boil.  He was supposed to be taking care of John, watching out for him, and instead he’d fought, and the boy had undoubtedly left after he’d come back upstairs.  With a look over his shoulder, his suspicion was confirmed at the sight of Alfred emerging from the drawing room.

“That’s alright, Master Bruce,” the man spoke softly as he approached behind Bruce.  “I don’t think Mr. Badami plans to visit again anytime soon.  He’ll never know.”  The vase had been a gift from a business magnate from India, a token of goodwill just as Bruce had sent more local art home with the man, in return.  Dealings between Wayne Enterprises and The Reliant Corporation had been completed nearly a year ago, in good standing, and Alfred was right, there stood little reason the man would return and expect to see the vase in Bruce’s home.  That fact, however, was far from Bruce’s first concern.

Crouching to start gathering the larger pieces of terracotta, an intact handle, the trunk of an elephant, Bruce forced himself to regulate his breathing.  His training in the mountains had taught him to control his emotions, to channel his anger properly, to calm himself even in extreme circumstances, in danger, but certain situations simply never arose in a secluded temple.  Inching along the floor, he had an armload of splintered clay pieces when he at last stood, now several yards from Alfred.  The other man, he noted, had left and returned with a broom, always ready to clean up Bruce’s messes.

“No, Badami won’t notice a thing,” he spoke much more evenly than before, “but it’s still a bad habit.”  Breaking gifts from business deals could relieve some aggression, but there were better methods.  Business deals…  With a groan, Bruce dumped his collection of shards into the dustbin Alfred had brought back with him.  “Damnit,” he breathed.  “Algren.”  He’d interrupted his surveillance to take John home, and had only had a mere glimpse at what the man’s intentions were during his meet with Falcone.  The two men were an odd fit, on the surface of things.  Falcone dealt more directly with the money flow in Gotham’s underbelly, as well as the influx and circulation of illicit substances.  Algren, from what Bruce had gathered, had plenty of his own money at his disposal, and was more interested in small tech.  Finding the crossover was supposed to have been the night’s outcome.

“Language, Master Bruce,” Alfred gently chided.  There was a small smile on the older man’s face when Bruce looked up, a fondness in his expression.  There were some lessons Bruce had never quite let sink in, but nevertheless, his friend would be there to remind him.  “And the night is still young.”  

Standing, Bruce’s head tilted, eyes narrowed as he found himself curious at the words.  The wait wasn’t long, however, as Alfred produced a small hand-held screen from behind his back.  In his haste, Bruce had left the tracking on Algren activated even after leaving the scene at the bar.  With a deep breath and a smile, Bruce took the tablet, clapping a hand over Alfred’s shoulder in gratitude.  “So it is,” he agreed.

It felt strange to board the elevator while already dressed in his suit, a sort of backwards way of doing things, but he hadn’t stopped to change properly after his argument.  Even so, he descended unmasked, the Bat’s cowl awaiting him on the damp rock floor upon his arrival.  Pausing before picking up the molded graphite, Bruce let the sound of the falls wash over his ears, the echoing squeaks and fluttering of the bats high above.   _Calm first_ , he reminded himself.  

To don the cowl was not to shut the world out, or to silence his mind, his thoughts.  Though he was different inside of it, freed, unbarred, the problems of Bruce Wayne's world were still alive in the Bat's, and those which touched both were impossible to ignore.  John currently straddled both sides of the cowl, and, not for the first time, he worried he'd made a mistake inviting him into his life.  Good publicity was an excuse, and he knew he'd felt a pull the moment he'd seen John, something inside of him recognizing kin even before they'd met, a fire to match his own.  Even so, while putting the flames out may have been impossible, he wondered if they wouldn't have been better off nurtured in a different way, rather than encouraged and fed by the Bat.  

Though pulling the mask over his face didn’t block out the problems the boy presented, it did change the viewing perspective.  Close-to-home concerns shifted to the peripheral as he stepped back into the tumbler and adjusted the lay of his cape.  There was a tracking device outfitted in the bike John used, though both Bruce and the Bat knew him well enough to anticipate he’d ditch it the first chance he got.  From there, it was unlikely he would return to the same club, but the Bat could look for him after taking care of business with Algren.  While lacking in training, in maturity and years, John had proven he could take care of himself in many situations.  Should a fight arise in his anger, the Bat was confident John would prevail, escape, or at the least call for help.

Into the night, he stole through the city streets, a blur of a shadow to those awake and a whisper in the wind to those in their beds.  Over an hour had passed, and yet the dot that represented Algren had yet to move from its place at Falcone’s bar.  Parking in an alley, he climbed the fire escape across the street, once more setting up the microphone.  Less conversation filled the building’s space than earlier, and it was an even faster job to focus on Falcone’s voice, though his tone was relatively hushed.  

_“…only if it works,”_ the man’s words burst through the Bat’s earpiece suddenly.  Neither of them could be seen, and the Bat had skipped the goggles this time around, but he focused on their inflections.

_“It’s a smart deal,”_ Algren replied, accompanied by the soft clunk of a bottle returning to rest on the table.     _“Wayne may be presenting himself as a philanthropist now that he’s come back from… wherever the hell it was he ran off to… but his daddy’s company has been shin-deep in military contracts since it had a building on the map.”_  The Bat couldn’t help noticing that the sweet twang his voice had taken on in his meeting with Bruce was less saturated in his tone, now.

_"Matthew,"_ followed a patient tone, _"Wayne may have taken over the company in a matter of days, but he's done jack-shit with it since.  He's a worm,"_ he added after the Bat heard another bottle settle onto the table, _"a spoiled, fat little overvalued worm, and you and me are the birds, understand?"_

A sound of agreement came from Algren, and after that, only farewells and vague assuring remarks.  The main event had been missed, and the Bat would have to find another avenue.  Tilting the microphone to follow the man, he waited as Algren emerged, popped his coat collar against the chill of Gotham's night, and waited for a cab.  Falcone must have called for one, as drivers rarely travelled that end of the city so long past sunset.  

While he could continue to follow him, there seemed little likelihood he would go anywhere beyond back to his hotel to sleep.  Without further insights to gain, there was also the problem of finding Bruce's upset ward.  Pulling the device from its spot on his belt, the Bat reset the tablet's tracking code for John's cell phone.  While the last received signal was inside city limits, the phone was currently turned off.  No matter how much he believed in the boy's ability to fend for himself, the Bat couldn't leave the city knowing contact was broken; especially when a closer look revealed exactly _where_ the phone's last GPS signal had gone dark.

It wasn’t far, and he left the tumbler where it sat, choosing instead to make the rooftops his route.  As if trying for the irony, Falcone’s hangout was equidistant from both the Narrows and Crime Alley, where the Bat found himself hopping rooftop gaps after only a few minutes.  John’s signal had been there before vanishing.  Maybe it had been stolen, but it seemed less likely than that the boy had simply turned it off—which pointed to the probability that he had actually been there in person, and also left the possibility that he was, in fact, still there.  Zooming in on the readout, the program’s accuracy able to provide him with a location within a couple of meters either direction, the Bat jumped to the last rooftop, brows furrowed behind the cowl when the display showed he then stood directly above John’s last location.  A quick survey of the rooftop, its neighbors, and a walk to the edge confirmed that it was a tenement building—or, at the very least, had, at one time, been a tenement building.  Most likely, it was now filled with squatters.

In seconds, he had tucked the tablet away again, exchanged it for a hook and line, and fixed the hook to the edge of the roof’s retaining wall.  A quick tug tested its hold, and over the side he went, feet walking down the face of the building.  Pausing over the first edge, he unclipped the microphone, letting its path wash over the building in a slow sweep.  Silence greeted him for the first few sets of windows, the first two slides down the rope toward the ground floor, but he stopped just less than halfway down.  It was more faint, but the clink of dishware came through to his ears, accompanied by an uneven rhythm of breathing and intermittent chuckles despite no other sounds.  Another careful sweep past the lower floors only brought more static and quiet, and the Bat tucked the device away again.  

No light shone through the front windows, not even from the side as he swung to a dilapidated, rusting fire escape landing on the same level as he’d heard the sounds.  Without any noises of his own, he tied the rope off on the ladder above him, inspecting the window.  The frame was intact, and the pane had been slid up on its tracks, cracking an open space at the bottom, through which the Bat could hear the laughter echo softly once again, this time reaching his ears on its own.  Its pitch was higher than most, and its lilt uneven, oscillating in its volume.  Quietly, as quietly as the rotting wood would allow, the Bat began to slide the windowpane up on its track, sure he could carefully fit through its opening.

“Don’t be shy,” came a near-whisper from inside before even one booted foot could set foot on the sill.  Even soft, it was clearly sourced farther across the interior space than would pose an immediate threat, and so with hands bracketing the frame, he continued to climb inside, keeping his back nearly against the window until his eyes could adjust.  The only light inside the room filtered in from the dingy yellow the rest of the city produced and flung out over the air, which amounted to little more than dirty starlight.  He could still hear the breathing, matching it to the distance at which the voice had spoken, and took the moment to click a pair of night-vision goggle lenses over his mask, magnifying the limited glow.  

Not completely empty, as he’d wondered, there was a couch crookedly set in the center of the floor, upon which lay a stretched out form that the Bat immediately recognized as John’s.  Taking a step toward him, he paused when the move elicited a short, nasal laugh from across the room.  Eyes rising, he squinted even with his goggles.  The voice’s owner had managed, in his position, to keep his face out of even the random spray of light from the city outside the windows.  He wasn’t much taller than John, and it stood to reason that he was the same boy from the alleyway earlier, but even so close, the Bat couldn’t get a good look to further identify him.

“Ah-ah,” the boy called out with a raised finger in warning when the Bat took another step.  “He’s _sleep_ ing at the mome _nt_.  So very _tir_ ed.  Be _s_ t to _let_ sleeping dogs _lie_ , isn’t i _t_?”  

Something in the pacing and rhythm of the boy’s voice set the Bat’s teeth on edge.  “He wasn’t very tired earlier,” he argued, watching John’s body closely for signs he was still breathing, that he truly was merely asleep.  A better inspection would require him to be closer.  “He needs to go home.”

Again, he earned a laugh, though this one was longer, more drawn out, and eminently more self-amused.  “ _Home_?  You mean, of _cour_ se, to the… to the _mansion_ outside of _Go_ tham, right?”  His words finished into a strange sort of giggle, and the Bat watched as he paced the floor, only a few feet in each direction, but still remaining out of the light from his waist up.  “That’s _ri-ight_ ,” he drew out, “you’re not that _har_ d to fig _ur_ e out, you know.”

“And where, exactly,” the Bat volleyed, slowly pacing his own side of the room, eyes in a continual play between John and the other boy, “do you think this mansion is?”

With a sharp intake of air, the boy let out a wide-mouthed cackle peppered with noisy breaths.  “Wayne Manor,” he spoke with a lofty affect to his rolling tone for the first two words, the laughter dead nearly as quickly as it had risen to life, “is _fair_ ly _ob_ vious.”

Ice ran through the Bat’s veins.  John must have told the boy, perhaps after their argument.  It was a foolish move, for both their sakes, but now was not the time to feed his anger.  Not, at least, toward John.  “What do you want?” he redirected toward the shadowy figure.

Pacing paused, there was a moment in which the boy hung in the shadows, not seeming nervous enough to be hesitating anything but purposefully.  Reorienting his body to directly face the Bat, he stepped forward, eerie green glow from the night-vision rising up his waist, over a dark vest, up over his neck and finally to a face just then rising up to look as if straight through the Bat, sweeping scars set into each cheek, like checkmarks drawn from the corners of his mouth now stretching outward into a grin too wide and too sinister to reside anywhere but in nightmares.  

“I _want_ John.”

Before the Bat had a chance to speak against the boy's desire, to argue the obvious that he couldn't have John, he suddenly found himself alone in the room with only John's still form beside him.  A scan with his goggles revealed that the other boy had vanished, not even in the immediate space he could detect through the thinner interior walls.  It was a move more familiar to the Bat for himself, and the reversal the moment offered felt strange.  It was not, however, the first of his concerns.  

Immediate danger relieved, he rushed for John, performing a swift check of vital signs before carefully gathering him up.  Though unconscious, his heartbeat was strong, his breathing regular enough though not simply that of sleep—Bruce had checked on the boy in the middle of the night enough times to know the difference.  If the strange boy wanted John, there was a good chance he hadn’t drugged him with anything harmful, but it would be a fool’s mistake to trust the logic of a clearly unstable teen.  A quicker destination than the manor brought the Bat and his charge to the docks, into an unassuming shipping container and down its hidden elevator that led to an underground equipment and computer storage space.  

Having called Lucius Fox on the way, the Bat was relieved to see the man already present and setting up a table when they reached floor level.  In the beginning, Bruce Wayne’s use of the Applied Sciences division’s equipment had been known by Fox but the specifics kept out of it.  In Fox’s words, it was more convenient should he be called into court on behalf of anything that went wrong, not having to lie about knowing what Bruce was doing.  Soon enough, however, as reports of the Batman’s activities began to arise, the veil shrouding the truth evaporated for the company’s CEO no matter their original arrangements.  Since, he’d become a trusted ally; his knowledge and expertise were invaluable.  

The Bat wasted no time in carrying John across the harshly lit room, setting him out on his back on the steel table.  Before he even settled the boy’s limbs, Fox had already pressed a syringe into his arm, drawing out a small sample of blood into the vial before ferreting it away.  Part of him wanted to follow the man, to observe every step of the process that he didn’t even fully understand, but he couldn’t leave John’s side for a moment, not then.  And so he waited, using the time to carefully remove each piece of the suit, steadily stepping out of the night and back into the world of Bruce Wayne.


	15. Chapter 15

Fuzzy.  Fuzzy was the only word John could conjure in his mind to describe how he felt upon resurfacing toward consciousness, and it wasn’t a very pleasant feeling.  It had already been a long night by the time he’d made it to the alley earlier, and he’d felt drained once the heat of his frustration and anger from his argument with Bruce had worn off.  Adding the attack, Jack’s actions, the walk to his apartment and a lengthy climb up a few flights of stairs, and he’d dropped onto his new friend’s couch as if his body were a sack of grain and not a frame of flesh and bone.  He wasn’t new to death, not having grown up where and how he had, but even so, seeing it first-hand was far from routine or insignificant.  

On the one hand, he'd witnessed a murder.  On the other hand, Jack had just saved his life, preventing one.  

"Jack?" he asked, his voice sounding distant to his own ears at first.  He sat on the end cushion of the old and beat-up couch that made up the only furniture in Jack's main room.  With Jack in the curve of countertop that served as a kitchenette behind him, his mind had only the assault to focus on, to mull over, to replay again and again through his mind like a looped tape.  

A grunted noise met his ears, rather than a spoken reply.

"Did you follow me, tonight, or find me accidentally?"  The question was blurry in his mind, but pressing to be asked.  Some part of him knew the distinction was important, even though either reason had ended up keeping him alive.  

Clinking together, two glasses occupied Jack's hand as he walked over to join John.  One was set into John's hands while Jack watched him.  "I found you acci _dent_ ally," he answered, tipping his own glass to swallow down a few gulps.  John nodded, about to settle back into the cushion, when Jack continued, "And _then_ I _foll_ owed you.  Have a drink, it'll... it'll make you... _calm_ er."

Mouth opening and closing a moment, John sniffed at the glass's contents.  Definitely alcohol.  He could use a bit of that at the moment.  Tipping it, he swallowed just little enough to keep from burning his throat.  "This part of some big plan you've got?" he asked when he'd cleared his mouth, not recognizing the drink, a salty flavor mixing with the weight of it on his tongue.

"Make plans too _big_ and you get… disappointment… when they don't work out... _No one_ likes disappoint _ment_.  But make 'em sm _all_ , one bi _te,_ at a time, and then you have... _Move_ ment."  Jack accompanied the concept with a rolling flourish of his hand, traveling away from his body.

"I didn't really picture you as the type with lots of patience."

"Oh, I have _plen_ ty," he mused, "as long as there's something shiny for me to look at in between..."  Reaching for John, he ran just the tip of his finger over the outer shell of his ear.  A smirk shifted the scars in his cheeks as a shiver tingled over John.

"I'm not exactly shiny," John pointed out, liking the attention but wanting a little distance from it for the moment, room to breathe.

"Maybe," Jack drew out as his fingertips trailed behind John's ear, down the side of his neck towards its crook.  "But you enter _tain_ me more than a handful of _dia_ monds."

Only when his eyes began to slip closed did John notice how his head had tilted, as if making room for Jack to explore his skin.  Righting it, he swallowed, finding it a little more difficult than normal.  Nerves could be blamed, easily, and he took another swallow of his drink to aid their quieting.  "Oh yeah?" he asked, voice stronger for fighting the fidget that threatened his hands.  "How's that?"  

“Don’t get me _wrong_ ,” Jack began again, tilting his head to the side as his fingertips grazed down John’s neck.  Their path took them along the tendon, letting John feel the tension in it.  “Diamonds are _nice_ and they… they _glitter_ and all, but you, uh,” he leaned in closer, his nose so close to John’s skin that he could feel breath puffing lightly over it, changing the rhythm of his own.  “You re _act_ , and move, and… _breathe_.”  The last word brought a stronger stream of air over him to accompany the deeper hum his voice took on.  

“Uhm, yeah,” John nodded, swallowing another mouthful.  “And that guy in the alley…”

Jack shrugged, sitting back again.  “Was going to _hurt_ you.  Maybe, maybe _kill_ you, or make you do… _things_.”

“And you stopped him.  And it’s not that I’m not grateful…”

“ _Grate_ ful,” Jack drew out the word, a click to his teeth with its ‘t’.

“Yes,” John stressed, nodding again though it sent the room in a tilt, feeling tired already.  The alcohol was warming him inside and making the world a lot blurrier.  “Grateful.  I just…”

“…Don’t know if you can _trust_ me.”  Hesitating a moment, the question hitting the nail on the head, John nodded his own.  “Tell me,” Jack spoke quietly as the room seemed to darken further, to spin, “can you really trust _any_ body but your _self_?”  His tone betrayed that he, at least, thought as much.

Working to answer, John found it increasingly difficult.  His mouth opened, and sounds came out, but even to his own ears it was gibberish.  The harder he tried, the worse it became, and by the time he registered Jack’s hands on his shoulders, his cup taken away, he was already lying back on the couch.  His legs were lifted and laid out for him, his head carefully cushioned.  Words failed him completely by then, and the room faded away as he slipped toward sleep, too tired to stay awake and aware any longer.  All that he could see was Jack leaning over him, murmuring reassurances that John couldn’t understand, and which faded out completely as he let go.

The next thing he’d been aware of had been hushed conversation nearby.  One voice was wholly unfamiliar, though pleasant, but after a few moments, he could make out Bruce’s as the other.  The words came after.

_“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne, but if you’re planning to involve a teenager in your activities, I’m afraid I’m going to have to respectfully decline.”_

_“It’s a relative thing, Lucius,”_ Bruce’s voice returned.  By then, before sitting up, he could tell that they were a few yards away, probably in an attempt to keep John from waking.  

Opening his eyes, he was immediately assaulted by a harsh white light, taking up the whole ceiling instead of only spaces of it.  He winced, the brightness of it hammering inside of his skull, and tried again more slowly.  The entire ceiling seemed to be made of fluorescent panels, the walls a plain grey, the floors a smooth stone.  From what he could see, it was a large, rectangular space, and predominantly open.  There was the table he was lying on, another not too far away, and a few shelves that not so much sat upon the floor as they seemed to rise up out of it.  Curious, John carefully shifted to his side, swinging his feet over the edge of the table.  Despite a headache, he was stable as he sat, and made the move the rest of the way to set his feet down on the cool stone.  

Barefoot, having been relieved of all but his pants, he glanced over to see Bruce speaking with a taller man with rich dark-brown skin and short, greying hair.  They seemed occupied enough—looking over a stand with papers on it—to not notice if John looked around.  Still listening, he padded over to a set of cases that had been drawn like drawers out from the wall.  

_“I wouldn’t be encouraging him if he couldn’t handle it,”_ Bruce continued, his voice still hushed and aimed away from where John had been lying. _“He’d be out there anyway, without my help.”_

Each of the drawers was filled tight with foam, with objects pressed into it.  One was lined with the small, sharp, bat-shaped throwing stars; another held coils of nylon ropes and different metal clasps; beside that there were small vials and syringes, which he assumed would be used to collect some kind of samples, though one set appeared to be missing, if the empty foam depression was any indication.  Supplies.

_“It’s escalation, Mr. Wayne,”_ answered the other, smoother voice.   _“With more equipment, whatever he’s up to already will grow bolder, more dangerous—”_

_“If you think I’m being irresponsible, Lucius—”_

Turning from the drawers, John’s attention was shifted wholly to the conversation.

The older man, ‘Lucius,’ had held up a hand to stop Bruce, to interrupt.  “I’m only trying to look out for _both_ of your wellbeing, Bruce,” he defended, his tone matching the shift in name, “but I trust you’ll do the right thing.”

Before either of the men could glance back at the table to see John up, he drew the attention himself by knocking one of the Bat’s segmented belts off of another drawer—accidentally.  “Uh… Hi,” he called out after clearing his hoarse throat.  “Sorry.”  Bending, he plucked the belt from the floor, reaching to steady himself against a drawer when the action threw his balance off.  

“Are you feeling alright, son?” Lucius asked gently as he strode unhurriedly over from Bruce.  “How’s your head?”

Before he could even get a word in reply out, a pair of strong arms bracketed his waist.  “I’m fine, honest,” he insisted, pushing at Bruce’s hands.  Their strong grip didn’t release, however, and he realized why as the room began a slow, sideward spin in front of his eyes.

“Thanks, Lucius,” a farther-away version of Bruce’s voice spoke as John’s arm was lifted and laid over the older man’s shoulders.  “I can talk with you about the rest tomorrow…  John and I need to talk, first.”  

Words of agreement sounded from the deep-set timbre, and John gave up trying to listen or argue as he let himself be guided toward a rectangle on the floor that looked slightly different from the rest.  Figuring out why became unnecessary as the shape shook and lifted off, raising them up into a break in the lighted ceiling.  Though he looked up, wanting to watch, knowing he was getting a view of a place most people in Gotham would only dream of, the switch from over-bright to darkness had his head swimming worse.  He didn’t bother asking where they were going; he knew before spotting the blurrily-revolving image of the tumbler where Bruce had parked it under the train’s overpass that they would be headed for the manor.  On the one hand, going ‘home’ was the last thing he wanted to do.  On the other hand, he was asleep almost before the muscled vehicle thrummed to life.

With no recollection of having been removed from the seat or transferred into the mansion, John awoke to the softness of a mattress and warm sheets.  It was daytime, if the sliver of light filtering between the edges of the curtains was any indication.  Squinting against even that much brightness, John carefully propped himself up on his elbows, only then realizing that he was not in his room.  This space was larger, more haphazardly arranged, and, most importantly, was already occupied.  The sweep of his gaze ended on the stretched out body beside him.  Bruce was asleep, dressed in the sweats and tee he’d been in while talking to Lucius, but was on top of the sheets, instead of under them.  John could only guess he’d fallen asleep while watching over him.  

Not feeling ready to stay awake just yet, but able to recognize the small triumph of winding up in Bruce’s bed, John carefully covered the man with a blanket that had been bunched at the bottom of the bed.  If he only lay back down, there’d be the sheet between them, still, and that wouldn’t do, so he crawled under the blanket’s spread, as well, tucking close to Bruce.  Though he didn’t touch him, not wishing to wake him prematurely, he could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin as he closed his eyes once more.  

\-----

"We just TALKED, Bruce!  Jesus." Though John had re-awoken to a comforting arm draped over his side, the morning had quickly gone downhill from there.   They were downstairs, now, Alfred having insisted that both of them eat some breakfast, though it remained mostly uneaten on its tray.

"Talked?...  You went from humping in an alley to just _talking_?"  

A roll of his eyes was instantly regretted with the headache he still had. "I wasn't humping, and neither was he.”  Rubbing at his eye sockets just made it worse, and John quickly abandoned the attempt. “He comes on strong, but he's not a _rapist_ or anything."  

It wasn't hard, but even so the cuff to the back of John's head seemed only to echo inside of it.  "Rohypnol,” Bruce let out more forcefully.  “That's what was in your system, John.   _Roofies_.  The exact thing a _rapist_ would give you."  He was pacing again.  "How can you continue to trust someone who knocks you out in an empty apartment building in the middle of the Narrows?"

Due to consistent grinding, the spot where talk of Bruce's upbringing and John's ground together was becoming quite sore.  “You say that,” he began, putting the icepack Alfred had brought him back against the side of his head, “as if I didn’t grow up there.”

"That doesn't mean you're _safe_ there," came the annoyingly old argument.  

Setting aside the ice, John let out a sigh.  "Look, I know you don't get it...  You grew up, well, _here_ , and that's great, it is, I mean, it meant you're able to do what you _do_ , but you don't understand what it's like to live in a place where there are fifty other people in half the same space as your _east wing_.  You don't understand what it's like to depend on your neighbors and hall-mates to keep each other safe.  You don't understand things like playing utility roulette, or—"

Bruce held up his hands, stopping his pacing to sit down on the footrest in front of John. "Okay, okay, I get your point. No, I do," he insisted when John began to argue again.  "I haven't lived it, not here, but I've seen it, and I experienced a lot when I left the city."

"By _choice_ ," he made a point of clarifying, having heard enough of the story.  

"Yes," Bruce nodded, "by choice, ultimately, but no less real, at the time.  And this isn’t about trusting your neighbors; you can’t just change the subject to prove your point."  With his brow furrowed, head inclined, Bruce showed his tells for thinking he had the upper hand of logic in the conversation—and maybe he did, in some respects—but John wasn’t won over just yet.  

“Really?  The ‘trusting neighbors’ bit is the only part you got out of all of that?”  He gave the older man a feigned eye-roll, a small, safe movement, plucking the icepack back up off the tray.  Arguments had a way of hurting his head to begin with, let alone when it already resounded internally with nearly every word spoken or heard.  Eyes closing for a moment, he wasn’t prepared for the larger, more calloused hand that covered his own, supporting the ice.  

His face inches from John’s, Bruce looked softer, the harsh flame dimmed behind his eyes.  “I don’t want to fight.”  When John only snorted in return, Bruce ran the thumb of his free hand over John’s lips, long fingers stretching out to gently cup his jaw.  “I know _you_ don’t, either, that’s not what I’m saying.”

_What ARE you saying?_ was the obvious question that filled John’s mouth despite not leaving it.  For the moment, he only met Bruce’s eyes, watching the way their hazel rings watched him, seemed to analyze him more coolly before turning soft once more, perhaps even fond.  He found himself breaking the contact after a few moments, feeling uncomfortable knowing how hard it was to maintain his mask around Bruce.  Perhaps he didn’t need to, but the very fact that it was more difficult seemed to make it more imperative.  

Hands bracketing John’s head with one over his own on the ice and the other’s fingers raising his chin, Bruce turned it, and John raised his gaze again, anticipating the respect of eye contact to be the reason.  However, Bruce’s eyes were not on John’s any longer, but tilted slightly down, at his mouth, the realization hitting John just half a breath before his lips were covered by Bruce’s.  A contented sigh eased through his nose, and John leaned forward and into the kiss, not wanting to miss a second of it, especially if Bruce decided to ‘think better of it’ after starting it.  The initial pressure was gentle, but John refused to let it go at that.  Resting one of his own hands against Bruce’s cheek, fingers just barely sifting into his—for once—un-gelled hair, John held him closer.

Reward came to him in the form of Bruce sitting back, but at the same time gently pulling John with him until they were both seated on the footrest, its surface large enough to accommodate.  Despite easily being able to sit beside or in front of Bruce’s legs, John chose instead to slip one of his own to either side of Bruce’s, dropping his icepack in favor of laying his arms around the man’s shoulders.  Their discussion could wait, for now.  


	16. Chapter 16

It felt as if every conversation they had lately had been an argument.  There were important things to work through, of course, but it was no way to live, and it certainly hadn't been Bruce's intention in inviting John to live with him.  He couldn't stop or help his worry for the boy, nor did he want to, but he recognized the need for balance, even in this.  They needed support as much as they needed boundaries. 

So he let himself kiss John.  He tugged the boy onto the ottoman with him, knowing full well how he'd end up once he was moved.  Even knowing all of the whys and why-nots, he slid his fingers over John's bottom, tugging the smaller body flush to his own.  The small gasp against his mouth was anticipated, and appreciated.  It wasn't difficult to get a reaction, wiry arms cinching around Bruce's shoulders, a roll of slender hips leaving nothing to the imagination as both of their bodies' excitement could be felt through the thin material of sweatpants.  

"Bruce," the boy breathed, nearly a moan.  "Please?"  Nothing more needed to be said; they both knew exactly what John was asking for. Even so, it was a complicated thing.

Resting their foreheads together, the tip of his nose bumping John's, Bruce broke the kiss to let out a breath.  "It isn't right," he forced himself to say, though it was thought more than it was felt.  

A frustrated groan rumbled through John's throat.  Two sets of fingernails dug briefly into Bruce's shoulders as if in reprimand. "C'mon..." he urged quietly.  "What's going to be so different in two years, anyways?  You'll always be a decade ahead of me, and fuck what people think."

Bruce pressed a firm kiss to John's mouth in apology.  "It would need to be a secret, John—"

Before he could finish, John's laughter cut in, even stifled as it was.  "Okay...?  It's not like there's a shortage of secrets around here, you know..."  Bruce could see the corner of the boy's mouth tick into his cheek, deepening the dimple.  

"You'd be taken from me.  You realize that."  To counteract the harsh truth, Bruce ran his fingers slowly, gently, through the longer, looser hairs along John's neck.  "I could go to prison, if anyone found out, and you'd be back in the system."

Surprised to feel a sharp tug to his own hair, Bruce looked up, meeting firmly-settled brown eyes. "Yep," John agreed, "And you'd go to prison if anyone found out you were a vigilante running around Gotham with pointy ears and a cape, at which point I'd _also_ go back in the system."  The single dimple had turned to a full, double-sided smirk as John leaned in to kiss Bruce rather softly.  "You're out of excuses that don't go like,” he tilted his head forward, affecting a comical version of Bruce’s voice, “ _'I don't want to,'_ and we both know you aren't going to say that one."

"I don't want to _hurt you_ ," he added, quick to finish the second half so as not to worry John.  Tucking a few stray strands of hair behind John’s ear, he sighed, nestling his nose into the crook of the boy’s neck.  “You’re my responsibility, now.”

“Or,” John challenged, the word drawn out and ending with his teeth briefly set at Bruce’s ear, earning a lingering exhale.  “Or… we could do that thing where we take care of _each other_ , and have that responsibility together.  I’m not a kid, Bruce… I’m just younger than you.  I haven’t been a kid in a long time.”

There was little point arguing the facts against his statement, as Bruce already knew what was meant by it.  In truth, he hadn’t felt like a kid since the night his parents were killed, either. All of the normal parts of childhood seemed to have fled in those swift shots.  It had to have been much the same for John, as well.  What _those_ facts did _not_ do, however, was ease his mind.

Shaking his head, he left a kiss to John’s neck before pulling back.  “It isn’t right,” he repeated, feeling it more once his head gained better clarity.  Fingers sifting through John’s hair, he kissed him tenderly and dropped his hands to his own sides.  “I can’t.”

The flash of anger behind John’s eyes was more than obvious, but the boy kept his calm.  With kiss-flushed lips in a straight, firm line, John hitched his legs up and back one at a time to stand in front of where they’d just sat.  “No.”  Instead of heat, there was a cold quality that came over the boy’s face, and it sent a small chill through Bruce to see it directed at him.  “You don’t get to be the tease, not anymore.  So if you’re dead-set on eighteen, you don’t get to kiss me.  You don’t get to touch me.  You don’t get to think about me when you jerk off—none of it.  I won’t be thinking about you, either, so it’s even.  From now on, for the next two years,” he squared his shoulders, a small movement, but one with finality as he stared down at Bruce, “you’re the guardian, and I’m the foster kid.”

Bruce said nothing. There was nothing _to_ say.  He only watched as John snatched up the mostly-softened ice pack and strode coolly from the room.  


	17. Chapter 17

It had felt right.  

It had felt _right_ , but Bruce just couldn’t see that.  

Well, then fine.  

John left the manor the next night, not having spoken to Bruce for the rest of that day and all of the following.  Protégé had been left on the table, and he suited up to make his rounds. Approaching the Narrows after an unusually quiet night, he checked for a bat-shaped tail following him, satisfied that he was on his own before he headed for Crime Alley.  Sleeping with Bruce wasn’t an option, now, but he had others.

Despite having been distraught, he could still remember the look of the apartment complex Jack had brought him to.  There was, of course, the chance that he wasn’t there, that he was at the club—or another, or any other location Gotham’s nightlife offered those who sought them out—but it was worth a shot.  No lock blocked his entry to the main door, and the climb up the stairs felt much easier when he wasn’t tired.  His backpack had stayed at home, the suit still on as he reached the correct hallway.  It wouldn’t matter much; if Jack already knew about Bruce… the leap to assume that John might be complicit wasn’t a far one.  

Raising his hand to rap his knuckles on Jack’s door, he only succeeded once, the wooden panel creaking open the moment any pressure struck its surface.  Suspicion raised, John checked the hallway to either side, unhooking one of the truncheons from their straps against his thighs.  With a gentle push, the door swung the rest of the way open, a pale, yellowed glow meeting John’s eyes from the front windows.

“Jack…?” he called quietly, minding his surroundings, listening for movement, breathing, anything.

_“He knew about who I am, John,” Bruce told him, eyes locked with his.  That day had hardly begun, and the fight had practically emerged out of the exchanging of ‘good morning’s.  “Secrets exist for a reason, not so you can tell a hookup all about the Batman as a pickup strategy.”_

_Blinking, incredulous, John snorted.  “And you think I spilled it?  That I’d seriously tell some random guy exactly who the Batman is?  That’s bullshit and you know it.”_

Stepping fully inside, John could see that the couch was missing from the main space.  Further inspection led him to the kitchenette, finding no cups, nothing to indicate anyone lived or had lived in the space just a day before.  If the apartment had seemed empty when they’d been inside of it, it was desolate, now.

_“He figured it out himself, Bruce.  Honestly, it’s not that hard, if you know how to think about it. He’s not going to tell anybody… and even if he did, who’d believe him?  It’s a non-issue.”_

John stood in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle.  Jack was gone; that was the only possible explanation.  And with him, John’s current extracurricular options.

_“It’s a yes-issue, and one that we are going to need to deal with.”_

Apparently, the Batman was just going to have to wait his turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This fic has been 4 years in the making, and its sequel is 90% finished. Hopefully this part being posted will kick my ass into gear!_


End file.
